Strawberries

a poem

I cut the tops of strawberries
over a paper towel, 
too lazy to find then wash
a cutting board.
The knife leaves 
deep pink lines
against the white cloth-
four horizontal slashes in a row. 

I remember the young 
and violent girl,
her damp, cherubic cheeks
the color of strawberries. 
Beads of red form in her lap. 

I take the knife and slice
the flesh o…