Pits and Stems

You left your pits and stems
(emaciated skeleton bodies)
in white porcelain
the concave bowl of my stomach.
Some cherry meat clung
to the delicate cavity
woman in a red dress
piece of flesh
I didn’t savor.
You were here:
proof is the cherry juice in my veins.

I used to think that seeds flowed in kisses
rising against gravity willfully
to root in another body.
Tell me,
do seeds break from skeletons
and did you kiss cherries when your mouth met mine?
Do the pits that brush my navel
contain cells from your bone marrow?
Because yes, I felt the bits of you that
asked to get out
and do you miss them?
Because yes, I miss the pits that left me
when I reached for you.
Dig for my core
and you will find fertile connective tissue
that tastes of you.