Eve Merriam

I dream of giving birth to a child who will ask, Mother, what was war?

The touch of your fingersgrazing minedelicate asa single drop of winein a crystal goblet.Rolling it round,I savor it on my tongue,try tomake it lastforever.The words Iloveyouform in the airand melt. Your palm againstmy cheek,light asa snowflake.

Don't be polite.Bite in.Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin. It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are. You do not need a knife or fork or spoon.For there is no coreor stemor rindor pitor seedor skinto throw away.