end of season 

the strawberries are humming,
insect angry as i lift up leaves.
green skirts, knees & necks
shy from hands rooting through them
all day in the pin-pong sun. they're holy 
from the mouths of caterpillars. 
i imagine myself letting the bugs 
come to take bites out of me,
poke my finger through the holes like
a mouth chewed sweater-- like stocking runs.
pluck me apart a little more.
i like this idea of coming apart while
feeding another creature. i might
want to be buried in a strawberry field,
just maybe. crouched between rows of tired 
berry plants i think about Ontelaunee orchards
where we went picking as children.
strawberries for jam. boiling in our hands.
we were too eager. i ate them as i went,
one for the bucket & one for the mouth.
kneeling, fingers gory, wiped on my thighs.
my freckles turn into the little red bugs,
start scurrying over my body.
today it's late in the season 
& i'm finding the mashed red elegies 
of too-late strawberries. a proper
burial will come with the rain. i found
a few to eat, bit down on them right there,
the juice turning metallic in my mouth,
turning salt & blood. turning blister &
barefoot. i can hear you telling me
to wash them off. i smile smug & chew 
despite the dirt. the sweetness comes
back into focus. i find one to take back
with me-- it's shaped like a furious nose,
pricking with tiny seeds. i think 
how brave the strawberry is to wear
it's freckles like that, unafraid 
of them turning into clover mites.
i gnaw the last one from the drivers seat of
my car. the sun has a lazy eye & 
the bar doors are open, spilling with 
bok choy & ruffle-skirt lettuce.
it's late in the season for strawberries.