Ode to Strawberry

Hanging at the end of youth
and at the cusp of everything else –
that is what we call ripe.
And so you are,
when you taste best,
at a confused and
confusing age, hoping
someone will take you
before your flesh turns
to mush.

Flash your flashiest red
and light those amber seeds
of your jacket in the sun.
Burn all over with potential,
marketed as sex, sexy and
sexual appeal, but hide
your wild, green crown, because
it tastes bitter.
And how
is the finest
fruit meant to attract
a slapping, salivating jaw
when it styles itself
with that fervent muck?

Don’t worry, false cherry,
you can sit between my teeth
and await a day
when I will gnaw down
through you, and digest,
through a warm stomach,
every little, juicy, fine
and sexy
part of you
and slap
my lips
wiping
over
until
there
is
no
trace of you
left.