Pink-Peckled Art

A poem / spoken word inspired by Robert Falls’ rendition of The Cherry Orchard by Anton Checkov by Diana Mejia.

Through the panes of the window, the orchard remains, window frames housing the art,
White petaled plumes, and pink-peckled blooms, shroud the river that tears it apart.
Reeking of innocence, memories charred, sleep disturbed by wealth that's been marred,
By hands that give gold, and abundance of wealth, she failed-he failed, to hold on to herself, to hold on to the help, to hold on to the pain, to hold on to her babe, she was never the same.
Her boy, her blossom, her baby, her pride, babbles blowing bubbles, bleeding in the brine, sinking to the silt, 
She’s running out of time!
And as if guilt were the hilt of her gun, the loss of a son, a motherly plea, a need to be free, shot her to Paris far away from her trees,
And so she buckles on brass breaking knees, 
She breathes—
With poison in the river, poison in her blood, 
Poison from the man that pillaged her love.
She wants to forget, she wants to go stray,
But she runs to her orchard, her mother, her place.
Blinded by its light, a luminous tomb,
She cries like a baby leaving the womb, extending her hand to the first sight of touch
 
Neglecting her nest and giving too much.
 
And the trees they fall,
And the land is sold, 
To a peasant impoverished,
That could divvy the floor, 
See through the lavish,
And under the trees, 
Under the brass of her rich-plated knees,
Past the window of pink-peckled art,
To cut down the cherry orchard that cluttered her heart.