strawberry girl

strawberry girl, 

this poem is about you—not for you

because i gave you my summer, autumn, winter

and i gave you my song and my dance

and have nothing more to give you

that you would want to own

or i want to loan

 

thus now, 

i lie in this state of rigor mortis

waiting for spring to return to me

the seasons i spent

studying you

and

 

your august heart:

used and bruised and hand-me-down, i discovered it

an enchanting specimen that i dreamed up answers to

dreamed myself the one to give a name to it

dreamed myself the one to patent it

and keep it in an insulated box

ripe and warm

 

i am no scientist

i am a soft adolescent with a fake degree

and my inexperienced neurons misjudged your heart:

in october your heart was deceiving, a green strawberry

that i dug into with loose young teeth

and devoured flesh and seeds

and veins and leaves

and all

 

now in winter,

lips red as rage on the poster:

you are an empty ribcage of hard dirt

i a stomach emptied of acid, icing over

undigested, your once-green leaves

in the cold chasm of my gut:

wilted brown and

heavy and

 

bitter.