Cherries on a vine, plump without

pits, we—saved the talking for

the extroverts at chlorine conclaves,

passed secrets between the frames

of our tennis rackets. NBA2K, only

you love NBA2K, but I supposed

I could make an effort. We spoke in

code: A+ means pumpkin pie, A-

means rotting flesh, red-salt sweat

for supper. Ridiculous—I knew, you

knew. Now, she’s pulled you away

with kombucha and yellow ivy back-

pack, chipper like bluebirds upon

the first spring flower. And of course

you follow her; hell, I’d follow her if

she extended her fresh palm. Now

you’ve got three stems in your corner,

four, five, eighteen, I’m lone fruit on

this thread. I don’t even like you like

that, but it still tastes burnt. Blue. Bitter.

Matt Hsu is a student from San Francisco, California. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and he’s published or forthcoming in The B’K, Kissing Dynamite Poetry, and Paddler Press. Currently he's querying his first novel: a twisty, thriller-mystery about a crafty assassin. You can find him on Twitter at @MattHsu19.