Raspberries
The way we can't remember heat, forget the sweat and how we wore a weightless shirt on chafing skin, the way we lose the taste of raspberries, each winter; but
know at once, come sharp July, the vein burning in the curtain, and from that light - the block of sun on hot crushed sheets - the blazing world we'll walk in,
was how it was, your touch. Nor the rest, not how we left, the drunkenness, just your half-stifled, clumsy, frightened reach, my uncurled hand, our fingers, meshed,
-like the first dazzled flinch from heat or between the teeth, pips, a metal taste.
By Kate Clanchy, from her collection Samarkand (Picador, 1999) |