Pit

I pit cherries.
I rinse a handful,
lay them onto a cutting board
to keep the counters clean.
Pull off their stems, 
place them stem-side 
down. Push down with one finger.
The flesh parts, revealing a
solid pit and leaving a trail
of red on pale wood.

Red juice likes the space under
fingernails, but leaves when evicted.
Red juice does not pay rent in the summer.
Red juice comes knocking at midnight.

A boy with red juice hair
and bulging eyes
comes knocking.
Cherry boy lets me tug out his stems,
drive a finger into his center, and
watch red juice spill onto pale
wood.

Cherry boy comes.
He rips out my stems and bashes
my center open, but he does not wait
to watch red juice spill. 

Pale wood absorbs
pungent cherry juice, turning
bright wound to dull stain.
I ask the cutting board 
to explain its kindness.
It reminds me: I put it there
to keep the counters clean.