you show me what you’d hidden,
slyly pulling from beneath your shirt
those strawberries from my visit
that we’d left on the shelf, untasted;
and while this library allows eating
in certain designated areas, it was
only in the basement of Mysteries
(with its lack of windows and single
point of entry) that you’d let me
taste them the way they deserved,
their savor as puzzle-box to be
unlocked through the manipulation
of subtle pressures, the sliding
of secret panels, the utterance
of magic words that vibrate on the lips.
Riddles flanked us, outnumbering;
crowded shelves of them, voyeurs
spying from between their covers
as we checked again to be certain
we were alone with those Mysteries
who mourned so salaciously the
imminent demise of their sibling,
the conundrum of the flavor of
those strawberries across whose
dimpled firmness I would run an
inquisitive finger, wondering at
their hue, their summery fragrance.
And when I dared to close my lips
around them, spilled their secrets
across my mouth, I heard their
wisdom in an ancient tongue.
There is a town in France known
for its pepper, said to be a perfect
complement to les fraises;
surely its name sits somewhere
on these shelves, another Mystery
to be solved. But I will remember
le poivre, its subtle complexities
that lingered so long after
my question had been answered,
and how I exalted at having stolen
the idea of that flavor, smuggled it past
the front doors into the rain, fruit
of such a simple, but illicit, act.
(first appeared in Literal Latté Fall 2013; winner, Literal Latté Food Verse Contest 2012)