She comes to the door
in an off-white suit and heels
carrying a bouquet of roses
and forget-me-nots. Of course
you invite her in for tea
and offer butter cookies, but
she asks for the strawberries
in the refrigerator, and although
it may be winter, or even fall
there they are, beaming messages
of hope from a cut-crystal bowl.
She eats them slowly, eyes closed
and your mouth floods with longing.
Her eyes tell you it’s your turn
and she’s sorry if it doesn’t end up happily
ever after—she laughs, it never does
really—but that’s no reason not to
savor every moment, all the blues
and anguish, euphoria and doubt.
Funny how she stays so clean,
no trace of stain on her fingers,
no dropped berries, teeth bright
in spite of all the tea she drinks
in the homes of all those other people
just like you.