So what is the antithesis
of strawberry is not strawberry?
I’m inclined to say it’s ash,
if only to impress
upon you the more practical theory
of how a thing is often gotten at
in getting at what it’s not.
How you encouraged these bubbles
to fettle my nose reciting
the méthode chamenoise
in thick Spanglish. Trouble
arose, though, when I got at biting
the strawberry you lowered to my lips
by savoring its flesh.
It lodged, sabot-shod my windpipe.
In a fit of compromise, you dug the trashcan
for kindling, checked my pulse.
Your matchbook for matches.