There were never strawberries like the ones
we had . . .
The sultry afternoon sitting on the set of the open French window,
facing each other, your knees held in mine,
the blue plates in our laps,
the strawberries glistening in the hot sunlight.

We dipped them in sugar, looking at each other,
not hurrying the feast . . .
for one to come. The empty plates lay on the stone together
with two forks crossed, and i bend toward you,
sweet in that air, in my arms,
abandoned like a child, from your eager mouth.

The taste of strawberries in my memory
lean back again . . .
let me love you, let the sun beat on our forgetfulness.
One hour of all, the intense heat and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick Hills,
let the storm wash the plates.


-Jenny C.