Carla M. Cherry’s work has appeared in various publications, including Random Sample Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, 433, La Libreta, ISLE, and Raising Mothers. A Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee, she authored six books of poetry, Gnat Feathers and Butterfly Wings, Thirty Dollars and a Bowl of Soup, Honeysuckle Me, These Pearls Are Real, and Stardust and Skin (iiPublishing), and two chapbooks Clap Your Hands, Stomp Your Feet (Grandma Moses Press) and Sundays and Hot Buttered Rolls: A Granddaughter of Harlem Speaks (Finishing Line Press). She holds an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from the City College of New York. Find her here.
CAN WE TALK?
You, who named me Spotted Lanternfly,
who drown your hotcakes in syrup,
despise my appetite for the sap
of the maple, the oak, the sycamore,
who abhor the mold and fungi
that grow from my honeydew,
who shout,
If you see one, step on it. Take a picture.
Join the Battle! Let’s Beat this Bug,
who bypass discarded receipts,
Dunkin Donut cups, and candy wrappers
cluttering your gutters and sidewalks,
who rage
as we rest on walls or benches,
flex perfect black spheres
on our forewings,
red and black brilliant plumes of our hindwings,
you, so dissatisfied by your Divine Design,
your malodors,
deprive our global forests
and we who live in them
of trees for your palm oil plantations,
mascara and lipstick,
hairsprays and perfumes that confuse the bees,
emanate volatile organic compounds,
build a mantle of ozone
into air pollution killing seven million of you,
and 100,000 dolphins, seals, sea lions, and whales
each year from BHT and BHA
in your shampoos and body washes,
oxybenzone in your sunscreens
stifling our coral reefs;
you, whose single-use micro and other plastics
take 100 to 500 years to disintegrate in landfills,
I ask you, scourge to scourge—
what can we do to stop you from killing us all?
THE GREAT ENIGMA
Three a we.
Splayed across grass.
Jack-o-lantern grin.
Cheshire cat smile.
Orange banana.
Crescent of fire.
“Daddy,” says a little boy,
“Can we go to the store
after the sun closes its mouth?”
I laugh.
Why should the sun close its mouth,
when the moon has been such a tease,
promising this fleeting soul kiss.
The sun, the moon,
close the clouds around them
like curtains, a shield
against our prying eyes.
How I want a rare,
raw view,
but
my retinas.
These glasses
are like latex between
slick slurp of striving skins.
Why do so many sweet things threaten
to burn us so?
REEFS
How can I not pity
sidestepping lobsters,
black sea bass,
blackfish,
summer flounder,
as they swim
our former metal glories in silence?
Will the Atlantic’s bottom
ever sound as sweet as
screeching steel-songs,
ding-dong,
Stand clear of the closing doors,
like porgies chasing chum,
hundreds dash for seats—
naps,
head-nods to beats,
getting lost in books—
hands holding overhead bars,
silent prayers
no anger erupts over squished hips,
accidental brushing of arms
or bags against legs,
oh, those incantations to repent
for the Coming of the Lord,
sad-storied beggars
needing a little something
for food–we hope—
sound systems,
dancers offering fist bumps,
winding arms, legs, around poles—
how do they keep their flipping feet
from smacking us in the face?