Fried Chicken and Coffee

First thing you notice is the color.
“Red” doesn’t do it jus­tice.
This shade only exists in Tech­ni­color.
They haunt my dreams in late Feb­ru­ary,
when a foot of snow cov­ers the ground.
Not ruby, not scar­let, not car­di­nal.
“Puls­ing red” because they beat
like hearts on my plate.

There are four left.
Last har­vest of the sea­son
sit­ting on the counter.
I won’t have the chance to taste them again
til next sum­mer.
The knife sings, ecsta­tic as it releases
nec­tar and haloed seeds.

First bite: rap­ture.
Sum­mer sun and rich soil
cre­ated vine-ripened ecstasy.
Sweet­ness of refresh­ing rains,

respite from 100 heat,
adds a grace note to the aria
burst­ing as I chew.
Far too soon, all that’s left
is juice.
I raise the plate to my mouth and drink.

Jenifer Lee Wal­lace is a writer and poet from St. Louis, with fam­ily roots in the farm­land of south­east Missouri.