Rhapsodie de Fruit

 .

Hers was a large white house,

unmarked, no stain

.

above the door. Her house

was safe as cleanliness –

.

as close as she came to God

each week in the stone school chapel.

.

She sang soprano from musicals and ate

her lunch with a folding fork in our corner

.

of the quad. Her limp dimpled

body – bruised white peach –

.

retained hard surfaces

of home, as she bit her nails

.

on the green wood bench, bit them

til they bled.

.

Sleeping over –

my tongue stiff

.

on this mysterious

sophistication – I fell

.

for the wild blueberry

jam; it was French,

.

a saint’s jam. With shrunken

berries popping in my mouth

.

I ate more slices than the

other girls; my eager valentine

.

to her

who didn’t eat a thing.