Henryk Błaszczyk’s Cherries

Kielce, Poland Pogrom, July 4, 1946

I cannot tell you how many pie-sweet cherries covered the grass—blanket blood-spotted. I can tell
you, I wanted them and grabbed them like a cat pawing a nest for red-speckled thrush eggs. I can
tell you that after plucking them—stuffing my pillowcase brick-heavy—I stained my hands, mouth,
with red juice. I thought no one would care, but when I returned with a full belly,
pillowcase empty—the way their survivors returned with change of clothes filling a pillowcase,
bellies empty—Dad grabbed my shoulder, plum-bruised it, and asked, Who plucked you?
Because I pointed to a tree of life, everyone else pointed limbs, making all their nests
blood-speckled.