Pushing the piston that cuts
into the heart of each cherry
one by one.
Pits drop into a clear plastic bin,
Hard golden hearts with
bits of red flesh
clinging to them.
Hollowed fruit pops into a bowl.
my arm, the table, the chair, the floor.
Add another handful to the chute.
Resume the plunging, watching
the skins for worm-holes.
Smaller than the crescent of
the nail on my little finger,
a pale green eyeless tube of goo
with the DNA for wings
I drop into the compost bucket.
As I do milkweed sprouts
that seem as if they're food to eat.
Their remains make their way
into the vegetable beds and
eventually I eat them.
I won't eat you, worm, with the cherries,
but after you become one.