Cherry Picking in Washington D.C. | Amy Wray Irish

Image: Lika Yer

Cherry Picking in Washington D.C.

BY AMY WRAY IRISH


First, the cherry trees blossom, bursting open into
skirted ballerinas filling the boulevard and the White
House and the whole nation with pink and white
petals (aren’t they pretty?) until their frills fall away
and they begin to swell, to reveal their pollination sin,
forcing them to bear fruit

far too soon.
Young wombs chock full of false promises, bellies sick
on syrupy cherry-flavored stories poured down throats,
forgetting the choke and force feeding of suffragettes
by funnel and pretending to forget the funneling of dollars
away from pre-natal planning and post-natal everything,
easier to just shut up and take

whatever gets shoved in.
The options are a) poison or b) bitter dregs so they swallow
and say that it’s sweet but how would they know a good taste
in their mouth the truth on their lips

if they’ve only been fed lies.
They don’t know someone cherry picked their words
and their world. They unknowingly devoured each unripe
soundbite and even ate the pit believing they were blessed
and precious and special, told they were so pretty and so
holy, not knowing it was only so they would pick right
at the polls

then be easily pushed aside.
Drooping and forgotten, the poor little flowers are falling
from the pedestal, dropping from labor and lactation and loss
of blood, wilted from so much “women’s work” squeezed
from their failing bodies, bound now to the bed
they made, unable to pick up their broken pieces
to start over or escape

but hey,
remember how they were pretty, once?

Amy Wray Irish (she/her) believes poetry’s job is to be both brutally honest and eternally hopeful. Irish has two contest-winning chapbooks (Down to the Bone and Breathing Fire) and numerous other publications. Her work is forthcoming in the 40West Anthology, and the 2026 We’Moon Daily Calendar. Read more of her work at www.amywrayirish.com.

3 thoughts on “Cherry Picking in Washington D.C. | Amy Wray Irish

  1. Amy’s rage singed all the hair off my face; then i inhaled it, sizzling, into my lungs. Whew. Compassion is the heart of this poem, though. Love it so much.

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