Strawberries In The Fridge

I ate the last of the strawberries
from a red bowl in the refrigerator.

Couldn’t have been more than
four teaspoons; unsweetened,

lumpy from improper processing
but still perfectly good, even without sugar.

I don’t remember doing this. I know
I did it — the evidence is there,

or rather is not there; it’s hard to recall this
action or string of actions. I don’t recall

the taste, just the record of tasting.
I don’t recall the washing of the bowl,

but it is back in the cupboard and clean
so I must have done so, though I have

no memory, not even a fragment.
It is like this now:

a moment is taken before an act;
blank time fills in the spaces;

I recall none of it, just
the clouds before the time,

and even that is uneven, irregular,
full of nothing. All I know

is that I ate the strawberries from the bowl
and washed the bowl after I was done

and it happened sometime in the morning
after something horrendous happened elsewhere

and I was part of neither occurrence,
was just present here and my memory

has let them both go. I’ll have to read
the news for the latter, if I choose to;

I will never recall the former even if
I try. I do try and try. And then I let it go.

But the bowl was red, I think.
The berries were red as well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
T