Berries and Bedsheets

Whether this is a dream or not, you carry this bowl of fruit to bed 
through waxing light, skin pressed against the glass in red and black 
fingerprints and cobalt palms and violet lungs holding their breath. 

I know this dream will fuck me up in the morning when I untangle
arms and sheets and legs and brambles to find strawberries under
my snowy pillow, despite sleeping solitary through the long winter.

You hold the curve of a blushing apple against your cheek 
like you held my shoulder when we danced and my fingertips 
read your heart through the veins on your arm, 

I can only hear your heartbeat as these raspberries crush 
red and burgundy blotches of pomegranate burst beneath us.
In pressing elderberries past my lips, do you understand

that you are condemning me to dreams of death? Believe me,
after this we won’t find a thing under the gooseberry bush— 
I’m always playing gooseberry anyway and trailing behind. 

You’ve cracked open my heart this way, with the seeds tumbling out. 
Blackberries are all I feel like eating anymore and I cannot see
that you are eating me away.





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