A Taste

Instead of Saying It (A Taste Of Cherry)

0321.2025

He didn’t explain the man in the car.

He just said, watch this.

And I did.

Dust roads.

Dry silence.

One request:

bury me when I’m gone.

He never asked me to save him—

just showed me how the man moved,

how he slowed at the edge of nothing.

No love interest.

No woman waiting.

Just an old man,

and the story of the cherries—

a taste that made life stay.

He gave me that film

like a confession folded—

not addressed to me,

but still pressed into my hands.

Now he hearts my poems,

shares them without introduction,

and likes cherry shoes

on someone who’s not me.

But I remember the road,

the dust,

the hollowed voice asking,

will you bury me?

And I wonder—

did he think I was the one

who’d know where to dig?

m.c.f.

The Color Red

Red

0224.2025

Red is verve,

And passion,

Or another

Animal

Altogether—

Something like,

Strawberry

(Or their moons),

Or the deep

Ruby rush

Of cherry—

Possibly,

A flower

You’ll kiss,

(Or its fire.)

It’s in the

Female stain,

Mulled wine,

And blood sap

Beneath the

Blood moon high—

Where the earth

Exhales out

Elysium’s

Rosalia.

It’s in life—

And its love.

m.c.f.

The Complexity Of The Sexes

The Venus & Mars Issue

0219.2025

The trouble

with Venus:

She wants to be

natural

so lets everything

go wild,

the garden out,

the garden in.

The trouble

with Mars:

He likes things

smooth,

And

effortless,

Anything else

is

a hairy

tangle—

Oh, what Flopposite

Flopportunity!

m.c.f.