The Last Strawberry
Tabor Flickinger
Image by Thistle Azami
he saves the last strawberry
offers it to her parted lips
her teeth, tongue, throat
barefoot at the sink, he rubs
the bowls clean; foam slides
between his fingers; steam rises
a yellow rose on his chest
lace on hers, they give
circles of white gold
clad in blue paper, he grips her hand
swabbed with cleansing fluids
she shivers, sliced open
their whole self distills
to listening for a
first cry
at midnight, two, four
she pours herself
into the infant’s mouth
he fetches water, feeds her
grapes and cheese, then
paces baby to sleep
wreathed in stillness
head in his shoulder’s nest
a breath of eyelashes
three search together in a field of
low leaves; the smallest hand
picks the first strawberry
Tabor Flickinger
Tabor Flickinger is a poet and primary care physician who lives in Virginia. Her poems have appeared in Pulse, Oracle, The Yale Journal for Humanities and Medicine, and HEAL: Humanism Evolving through Arts and Literature.