Right now,
somewhere not here,
there must be
a Bowl of strawberries.
If they were here
I’d split them with you —
all I want is the tips.
You can have the rest
as long as
I can feel the
gentle rasp of each point
when I push my tongue
across them all
one by one
and then
consume each tiny peak
slowly, individually.
You
can eat them as you wish:
forkfuls, spoonfuls,
handfuls at a time;
soak them down in nectar
or powder them with sugar
from crimson down to pink
before you begin;
they’re yours now,
do as you want, take
your own particular
pleasure in them;
I will as always
eat mine straight
and pure without
enhancements;
slight bitter
under sweet,
sharp as the knowledge
that what I gave
was just as good
as what I held,
and both of us were satisfied.
