DANIELLE MAMARIL
Cherry Pie
Poetry
by: Danielle Mamaril
i never liked cherry pie.
i could always taste the rancid stench
of a too tart, too sour, too vile center.
gooey, bloody guts piled high
beneath lukewarm dough.
the texture is a rotting fish.
maggots infested from the inside out.
every crunch of burnt crust is a small fish bone
to pick the yellowed plaque from your teeth.
a school friend insisted that he alone had the best pie.
it’s to die for.
he pressed his blistering mouth against the skin of my neck.
the hairs on my back snapped straight.
my gut twisted itself into the braided crust.
when his hand brushed my chin,
i flinched at the oven burn.
where his hands worked my flesh,
the cherry juice stained my skin.
a bloody handprint against warm skin.
i feigned lip gloss smiles and shuttered
into the back of my ribcage.
he insisted i try a slice.
his thumb grazed my lip,
before i could protest, the fork
was already in my mouth
so i held my breath.