You spoiled something back there at the beginning,
a vowel, a syllable, a word,
and the poem’s inedible now,
like strawberry jam
capped with mold.
Someone spoiled something back there at the beginning,
the Lord, the twenty-fourth pair of chromosomes,
and the poem’s buried now
like a tallith
in a mass grave.
You spoiled something back there at the beginning,
married, got divorced,
and the poem’s torn away now
like a son from the father,
the father from a son.
Someone spoiled you back there at the beginning,
forgot to give you sharp elbows, a dull conscience,
and the poem’s in trouble now,
like a fool
who told the king the truth.
Th e poem is spoiled,
something’s missing,
too late to set it straight,
like your life, your ancestors, like history:
it’s what it is.
A strawberry in spoiled sugar.