The cherry tree grows under glass,

its blossoms monitored by drones

that hum like tired bees.

Every petal is logged,

every shade of pink

filed into a system of surveillance—

a bloom cannot fall

without permission.

They hand me a menu,

but nothing on it is food.

Instead:

options for memory erasure,

new names,

synthetic skins.

I order silence,

but the waiter shakes his head—

that’s seasonal,

try despair instead.

The meal arrives cold, congealed—

a plate of regret,

piled high with compliance.

I chew carefully,

as if teeth could break the system,

as if swallowing could free me.

Above, the cherry tree

presses its blossom-face to the glass.

I imagine climbing it,

my mouth full of petals,

not surveillance.

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a donation from Atthis Arts during our annual Kickstarter.]