STRAWBERRY SEASON
I visit farms
Where you strut through fields
You'll never own.
Your wife and kids look like you:
Jeans, plaid shirts, long black hair.
Quick-fingered, they pick strawberries.
At home, I hull fat berries,
Shock them with ice water,
Add sugar and cream
To cut the tart zing.
I gorge myself,
Run my thumb across my stained lips,
My mouth as red as your fingertips.
There is dirt on your hands,
And no matter where you stand,
Sun sears your skin.
Do you entertain bitter thoughts
As you plop sweet, red drops
Into your bucket?
Or is it this simple?
After strawberry season,
Peaches come . . .
Then tomatoes.
"Strawberry Season." Jimson Weed, vol. XXV, new series vol. 9, no. 1 (Spring 2006).
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