Poetry Friday: Strawberrying

June 24th, 2011

It’s strawberry season here in Maine, so I picked this poem by May Swenson to celebrate the occasion! Happy reading and picking!

Strawberrying
May Swenson

My hands are murder-red. Many a plump head
drops on the heap in the basket. Or, ripe
to bursting, they might be hearts, matching
the blackbird’s wing-fleck. Gripped to a reed
he shrieks his ko-ka-ree in the next field.
He’s left his peck in some juicy cheeks, when
at first blush and mostly white, they showed
streaks of sweetness to the marauder.

A crop this thick begs for plunder. Ripeness
wants to be ravished, as udders of cows when hard,
the blue-veined bags distended, ache to be stripped.
Hunkered in mud between the rows, sun burning
the backs of our necks, we grope for, and rip loose
soft nippled heads. If they bleed – too soft –
let them stay. Let them rot in the heat.

When, hidden away in a damp hollow under moldy
leaves, I come upon a clump of heart-shapes
once red, now spiderspit-gray, intact but empty,
still attached to their dead stems –
families smothered as at Pompeii – I rise
and stretch. I eat one more big ripe lopped
head. Red-handed, I leave the field.

Entry Filed under: Poetry Friday

Leave a Comment

Required

Required, hidden

Some HTML allowed:
<a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>

Trackback this post  |  Subscribe to the comments via RSS Feed


New From Stenhouse

Most Recent Posts

Stenhouse Author Sites

Archives

Categories

Blogroll

Classroom Blogs

Tags

Feeds