by Hana Ferguson


We lay in mounds, in lonely fields

that are flooded with red bodies–

our fruits baking, ogled by gnats

and we are picked night and day,

our seeds spread without a thought.

You know, the female part of the strawberry

is the soft fruit–

teeth sunken in, bit by bit

juice dripping from stubbly chins.

Hundreds of pistils are fertilized while

their eyes glow dark under the moon–

cycles breaking, but continuing on

as the grit and dirt ache our own teeth,

biting back the words and defeat.

Maybe they will never know

that lonely feeling of being thrown to the crows

as we are forced to become tarnished, forever rotten.

Our crops are bountiful yet we are

left to shiver, cold under the moon

Until the sun comes up to admire us again.


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