(A place of wild strawberries. A refuge. A sacred, hidden spot.)
My love is a difficult love.
Thin wrists reaching into bramble-seek,
thimbleberries slumbering blackly
under paper stars. A silence gruntled into silver-green serrations.
If I am scratched by this harvest,
let me wear the memory across my cheek:
your inkish-purple heart trip-trapping tiny bursts
against the holy steeple of my mouth.