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.