in which the author ponders her sexuality as her fiancé's mom explains how to cut strawberries
i’ve stained my hands red
for too many reasons, for too long
so my hands were unsure controlling the knife,
all the while imagining the intricate architecture
a whole medeival castle in ruins atop a cake
if only each strawberry carved to proper form,
meanwhile,
each strawberry cut to your preference
looked like a vulva dressed in fiery reds
and laughing pinks, exposed, with a gaping center
so unassuming perhaps life could spring from it
and i was lost in the intricacies of taste.