She Remembers Cherry Blossoms by Fabiola Levy

she was six when the briefcase connected with her jaw.

                whose hand? are you sure it was a hand?

to be fair, it could have been a floating briefcase.
ghosts don’t know what bruises are.

she walked right into it and cracked a tooth.
laughing, he took her home.
her mother shut the door in his face
and tended to the bloodied child

that night,
her mother received a new name: poisonous bitch

in all fairness, it was just a baby tooth

she was twenty-nine when the unfortunate incident occurred.
even in poetry, her need to believe it was love
is the thing that keeps bloodying her face.
it is also the thing she uses to stanch the bleeding.

the sweetness of her new friend
was in how much he wanted to be held.
more than he wanted to hurt her, even.
she’d cradle his head like an egg about to hatch,
press herself against him until his seismic heartbeat slowed
to match her own.

she found strength in steadying him.
that’s what she will tell you.

he put on a cape he used a household ingredient
he kept a little scrapbook

his violence was a fairy tale: unbelievable
even to himself.

he had a chip in his tooth too.
he only ate soft things.

she remembers it swinging open and hundreds of cherry blossoms falling out,
falling in her mouth,
falling to the ground,
wet with rain or blood,
covering it all up

she is thirty-six when it occurs to her:
he didn’t have a job. what was the briefcase for?

in the footage she sees her friend’s
young protégé
his wide eyes
his marshmallow cheeks just like hers
his brave stuttering his starched shirt his lonely distress
in front of the crowd he had been told not to fear
as it slowly dawns on him
that the flowers in his mouth
are poisonous

the young woman behind him points furiously to a gash in her leg

she watches her own wounds bloom on their skin.
their blood is not her blood, so she believes it. believes them.
she doesn’t try to cover them in petals
she searches for their names in the scrapbook
finds them pressed like hummingbirds
your bones are valentines he says
i like to look at them he says
pulling the cape tight

he pours the last of the cocktail down the drain
throws the cape in the east river
goes outside
goes nowhere

wait a few years, she says to the footage

eventually we create a vocabulary for pain
eventually they see what we see: the briefcase
and the poison

eventually we stop seeing cherry blossoms

eventually the world stops asking why we are wounded
and starts asking why he is crushing hummingbird skulls under a paperback copy of De Officiis
eventually we tell it

Fabiola Levy is a writer based in New York. She edits the zine GOOD LOOK.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s