Aunt Cheryl Gave Me Cherries

The first trick
she taught me
on the long trip
back from rabid,
feral,
and abandoned.

A shock of sweet,
sticky juice sheeting
over my tongue,
cooling my temper.
Stopping me
in time,
like a photograph.

More.
More of that.
Now.

Another handful
in exchange for pits and stems.

About

Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

Posted in Poetry