By Alex Rost
I put a quart of blackberries in the work fridge to snack on over the next couple days,
go back an hour later and toss one in my mouth.
Don't even have to bite
the fruit is so tender,
just squeeze it between my tongue and the roof of my mouth,
feel it pop, sweet juice squirting out in every direction,
coating the inside of my cheek.
Flip it to my teeth to finish the job,
chomp once, twice,
then get that perfect berry down my throat and grab for another
except the second berry is sour,
a slightly too firm dud,
the third even worse.
Fourth, fifth, sixth -
sour, sour, sour.
The seventh tastes a little metallic but isn't so bad,
the texture is right
and I have hope when I eat the eighth—
sour.
Sour, sour,
fucking sour.
Firm, gritty.
By the thirteenth my palette has no memory
of that first, perfect berry
but I can't stop,
the tingle in my tongue demands retribution,
solace from bitterness,
yearns for satisfaction.
The container is low,
the plastic of the bottom showing.
One sweet berry and I'm done.
It doesn't even have to be as good as the first,
only needs to provide a glimmer
that I can take into the future,
a belief that what I'm left with is better
than this.
Sour.
Sour.
Sour.
I'm not hungry.
Wasn’t hungry to begin with.
Two left.
Please, I think.
Sour.
FUCK.
One left.
I pick it up, hold it between thumb and forefinger,
bring it to my eye.
Solid, deep coloration.
A little squeeze—
just enough give.
I allow my hopes to rise.
I have confidence.
I run my tongue through my mouth,
searching for the taste of that first berry under layers and layers of sour.
I place the final berry on my tongue,
shift it between my teeth,
and bite.
Alex Rost runs a commercial printing press outside of Buffalo, NY