I touch you now as one would a newly blushed strawberry;
reaching down to touch the soft skin, the firm flesh underneath.
It is delicate business, the plucking of strawberries,
making sure not to press too hard, never letting the fruit fall to the loam below.
I touch you now, knowing that a bruised fruit will not keep,
will not stay long at market, will not survive.
There is a feel to the berry that the hand longs for,
the rise of the seeds, goose bumps over ripe skin, a feel of anticipation.
I touch you now, moving my hand between the leaves,
feeling the contours of the fruit, feeling for the perfect spot.
Watching a berry will tell a lot about its readiness;
as it ripens the color flushes the flesh to craving red.
I touch you now, moving until the fruit yields to my fingertips,
until the berry reaches my mouth, until nectar soaks my tongue.
Hands
> Right: Madeleine Beckman is a poet, fiction, and nonfiction writer. She is Nonfiction Editor for IthacaLit, a literary journal, and a Contributing Reviewer to the Bellevue Literary Review. Her work has been published in books, journals, anthologies, and online. She is the recipient of awards and grants, from among other places, the Poetry Society of America, the New York Foundation for the Arts, and the Irish Arts Council of Ireland. Her poetry collection, Dead Boyfriends, was recently reissued by Limoges Press, Madeleine teaches in the Medicine & Humanism Program/NYU Medical School and privately.