April, a month of hunger and renewal, licks my skin
with its warmth, drooling rain & snow over me
like a feral dog—coveting field strawberries a month away,
greenhouses shorten the wait to mere weeks before one can bite
into firm juicy sweet flesh that isn’t the either of us.
I’m rotting fruit—fermenting but not in the sweet way, and you will
ripen by the end of this poem. Hold my name in your mouth,
what becomes of me in a day, a fortnight, a month?
Am I mead, or soft fruit macerated for the purpose of consumption?
I have no opinion on the way you choose to consume me—but lord, let it be gentle,
let it be soft, bite into every part as one does soft-shelled crabs,
get to the marrow and tell me it rivals foie gras,
tell me the suffering rendered me something worthwhile.
