Strawberries

I
Midmorning light scatters between the grass and dandelions,
Catching speckles of wild strawberries.
It must be spring.

II
His thumb presses in against the dent:
Cold and slightly sticky,
Yellow seeds scaling the surface of
Smooth, snakelike skin.
He drops it into the bowl

III
She does not like strawberries.
She turns over the alien thing in her hand,
Presses it to her nose:
That cool, sweet fragrance.
She does not like strawberries.
Her mouth is watering

IV
They sat green in the windowsill
And the children, every day, upon passing,
Would look and try to will them to ripeness

V
Her knife flicks through fruit over a table
Alone, her feet propped up on the extra chair
She takes a slice of strawberry as she works. Sweet
Tangy red and white flesh. Tart.
Her lips pucker,
Seeds crunching between her teeth

VI
From the damned tree they ate and God cursed them in their nakedness.
Their invisible children sat watching beneath the boughs, eating
Red strawberries