Cherry Chérie

Lilian Ha


The highway is swaying beneath our feet    like
an offbeat waltz.                  Where there is song,
everything finds its way uptown:
        crimson heat
        floodlights, the thumbnail    of a moon. 
It is too dark
anyways                    to tell skin from freckled skin
to split breath from liquored air. Between us
a backseat jutting leather.
              A radio spitting glass.               At every stoplight
I ask you to sing me the lowest note, the one
              that rings   like age old scotch. And each time you
              empty throat, the engine floods. 
Buckles down, asks for another                 chance. Calls
              this is how
                            it always is. To draw first blood, to stain
the interior of a heart. I was just    too small, too eager. 
              A pockmarked daughter, a glow in the dark
doll.     Sweet enough
to be gum-smacked, cherry glossed, a soda          POP
tossed between two glass hands. 
                     I opened my mouth around you
in parentheses. Asked to be devoured, didn’t I?
It was soft, I was kind. 
                            Who could blame you
                                                 fickle thing.



Lilian Ha is a senior in high school from the suburbs of Seattle, Washington, where she enjoys long hikes and sugarless coffee. Her work is featured or forthcoming in The James Franco Review, Yellow Chair Review, The Gambler, and Rogue Agent, among others.

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