LaGrange, OH
A memory of the handful
he picked too early, the last time
she was home, makes her mouth close in,
her tongue arc. They were so tart,
but he wanted her to eat
straight out of their field again.
He rinsed them with a hose,
held out his palm. She watched the water
bead on their taut skin before she set one
between her lips. When she was born
her eyes were the same crisp color,
night-sky sweet.