by Chris Bullard

Living in the garden was tasting strawberries,
forgetting strawberries, then tasting them as new.
Air was thrilling. Water was unbelievable.
Each day, we gifted the animals with extravagant names.

Whether the sun hovered like a raptor on a thermal
or clouds blurred the sunset, each was the best day ever.
But resentment arrived in anxious ribbons.
No one could remember when we started remembering.

Quarrels were a thing. Hurts survived sleep. Boredom
was invented. Complaining that we needed
something different to keep us interested
was proof that some subtle fruit had poisoned us.

We came to like the way clothes fit. We felt a need
to decorate. We learned to think before we spoke.

Chris Bullard lives in Philadelphia, PA. In 2022, Main Street Rag published his poetry chapbook, Florida Man, and Moonstone Press published his poetry chapbook, The Rainclouds of y. His poetry has appeared recently in Jersey Devil, Stonecrop, Wrath-Bearing Tree, Waccamaw and other publications. He was nominated this year for the Pushcart Prize.