I remember the way the hot sun felt on my freckled cheeks-
long blond hair protecting my shoulders
and tiny sweat beads along my jewish nose.
It was my chore to pick the strawberries
from the tower my parents had built.
Three tiers tall
I remember the way the warm berries
gushed between my teeth-
filling my mouth with ease.
Squatting down with my bowl, I picked-
I ate, picked, ate.
I am sure my mother always wondered why our
plants produced so few-
my berry stained lips told the truth.