High summer in the strawberry
fields: his hands
Are splashed with scarlet, stained
with drying sin;
The careless juices linger at his
chin.
The searing sun lays fire down in
bands
Across his shoulders, flinching as
he stands,
But from the heat not from the
depths he’s in;
His hungry eyes are haughty, wary,
thin
As time runs out for him, time’s
running sands.
The cloying sweetness drifts,
bewitching, mild;
Remembering the tumbled, thrusting
game
He boasts about his fumble-bastard
child;
He nails upon her back a cross of
shame.
Twisting his ring, his wife keeps
true, beguiled
By some still need to nurse his
broken name.
(May,
1988)
