Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Old World
The summer I tend the derelict graveyard,
cherry trees wrench me in and out of sleep
as dreams rename themselves—
Damiana, Orris Root, Red Sandalwood,
Belladonna, Monkshood,
kinked petaled patrons of unmarked tombs.
Comets tinsel the night, flaming like coils
on Danaë’s pale belly and my unseasoned lips,
dressing our musky swill in summer’s darkest reds.
Don’t touch the cherries, grandma counsels.
Sweep them off the graves and let them rot there.
Don’t play at cherry-pit with Satan, grandpa warns.
I don’t worry.
All the pruning and weeding
will surely keep my mind off such sweetness wasting.
But the graveyard has grown restless and I love cherries.
Tongue-cradling each luscious morsel till it bursts,
I vow to remember the damage I am still to incur,
then spit the stone on the freshest grave.
Old souls may have claimed my own,
but I can tell these cherries are the best I’ll ever know.
156 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Mihaela Moscaliuc