You sat on the porch. Humming the opening act of Madame Butterfly. The grayness of the day suits you. Tied in white you pinch my knee and slap my forehead and tell me to take off with the day and bring you back crimson colored berries that taste of huckle and butterscotch.
I hunt for days searching for those sweet berries that you call sin. And underneath
the pigeon I named Francis I buried three years ago, grew your berries .
Red and yellow and purple and ox blood, came to me . Ravaging and devouring my lost bird to create your ambrosia. I scoop them up with one bite. Feast for a morning then begin to jut.
And now I understand why those things you eat so sweetly..
Are so ingenuously call sin…