Cherries

The birds are more than welcome to the rest
there at the ends of branches.
I have picked more than I can use
and have a hand
that’s sore and fingers swollen
from the test
of squeezing pits from flesh.

Still when I picked these sun-warmed ruby globes,
as firm as young ripe breasts,
my hunger was voracious.
I went on
and on beyond my need for pie
to touch each cherry in my reach,
pull in and clutch,
and, carefully, to fondle.

Warm and sweet, red clusters, smooth of skin
and taut with juice,
filled fingers up past holding.
Cherries dropped
bounced off my chest or ladder
and lay bruised
like wishes left or tossed, a home-run lost
at evening in tall grass.

Promiscuous as blood and just as warm,
red summer fruit seduces.
Here we start
with fruit that’s firm and tart
and so begin
to understand how Adam might have sinned
and not regret it.
Even so, for now
I’ve had enough of picking
and leave what’s left for robins.