As a Child, Words Hurt Worse Than Being Hit
I could still walk into that house and smell leather,
the sweet odor cracked into peach wall paper
that closed in on my body
until I vomited fields of soy beans.
Outside of the rows,
I’d pick wild berries.
An almanac cautioned
about Indian strawberries–
I feared that as the juice dripped
down my hollow mouth,
I’d surely die.
God didn’t want kids like
me.
Years passed.
I sat on a train in New York
where I read a columnist
who declared that just because
consumption of a wild berry is
not recommended,
that does not indicate that the
fruit
contains poison.
The Official Website of Aaron K Crocker 
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