Strawberries · Amy Pence

halved—my heart, so easy
the image arising full
in my mouth
as I bite back,

biting—sweet juice
running, gazing as I do
into the green monsoon: trees
moving in sudden rain.

Look how red
the fruit is—parsed among
green leaves, just near
blooms, throaty bells—the foxtail’s
mouths opened wide.

What cries, so dramatic—
our red ripe angers. How sweet
even they must seem
after death.

Pick them:
your duplicity, this poem—
a brilliant red door
behind it, you become
shadow again, lovely...
ghost I met
restored to ghost.
Close the door—

I eat strawberries
swallow each red
beauty. Your pulp
still in my teeth.