Fifty-six strawberries ripening one by one,
Such that I may never enjoy a bounty.
First, the sun works in favour of the fruit, in tandem with
What little rain there’s been. Eventually I am dared
To wait another day, wanting the utmost so badly
I sometimes teeter toward rot.
What good is this berry if it cannot
Be shared – as if I care. As if
This crouched seizure of
The only red thing in sight wouldn’t
Akin the bite to a first and penultimate touch
By an unrequited lover succumbing to pity.
As if the memory being mine alone
Wasn’t a premise of value.
As if the taste wouldn’t ensnare my tongue
As cloyingly as this season, if not more so, if not like
The choral thank you I’d elicit
If I could once again look up and not
Have my eyes fried out
By this ulterior, giving God.