Cherry Jam

With the lingering flavor of
something old and familiar on my tongue,
I traveled to your home,
intent to shatter all your windows,
should I find them open, or clean.

Je t'aime, je t'aime
you repeated so many times
as you pulled me along,
pulled me across seas and nations.

And I knew the words, knew them well
        but I did not know the language.

And who was I
to perch on the steps of a home
with ivy on the walls
and lavender growing in the garden
and take artful photographs of snails
with yellow shells?

And who was I
to fill my lungs
with air spun from the peaks of the alps
and sigh as if I found it all
quite banal?

Bienvenue, she said, come in,
        we're making cherry jam.

And who was I, who was I,
to drop my bags
and say "alright,"
and lend her my hands,
staining tired young fingers blood red
as I pulled out each pit
        and tossed it aside.