I had a weakness for strawberries
in a cynical age that mocked sweetness.
My friends lit cigarettes and chased
the fireworks of short skirts.
I wandered the lignite dark winter
past her house wanting to be
befriended by fire but ended up
cooling my heels. Yes, she was tart,
and freckled, and just now she triggered
this memory. I carry secrets like these
on long bus rides home, protected
like votives in churches. No, I won’t
tell you her name. Let her spirit evaporate,
like vodka on my tongue, like flame.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 1.
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