Cherry Blossom Ghost

                                                                              1.
The cold spring when I turned 16. The class trip to the Tidal Basin. The cherry tree biceps straining to sustain frost’s weight. Too heavy. The blossoms dropped at once, cast their fingerprints to the ground, their identities lost to city-slick rot.

                                                                              2.
The trooper holds a white straw to my lips. I beep-beep-beeeeeep, blow homebrew. I tell him cherry blossoms look like communion wafers and taste like church wine. He tells me to shut up and walk his line.

                                                                              3.
A fall ferment of my own making. I hammer pits, sprinkle bitter chips into an aging jar. Cherry mash my legacy—the baseborn child of that night of silk tongues and parasol drinks, my back scarred by the jagged hew of a monument wall.