The Last Day

The last day
we bought strawberries in the market,
took them home in two small brown bags.
I poured them into a white bowl
and we climbed down the back stairs and out into the garden.
We sat in those old, white chairs-
faced each other in the sun.

I picked a strawberry from the bowl-
it stained my thumb and forefinger.
It was plump, heart-shaped.
I think it was the biggest from the bowl.

You told me the origin of the word “strawberry”-
I don’t remember now-
Something about rotting in the soil.

I threw it in your mouth.
The juice ran from your lips like blood.



Salzburg,  1978



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