Strawberry Stand
I wanted to burn down that strawberry stand
Walking back from a long workday of yoroshiku onegaishimasu, I halted—
21 meters away from my apartment
There it was: a wooden stall against the neighbor’s house
There they were: sunbathing in clear to-go boxes
An oval coin box chained itself to the second shelf
waiting to feel the dropping clink clink of honesty
No one stole the strawberries, not even the birds
Red jewels nestled softly on styrofoam sheets
In the mouth: a quick burst of sweetness
In the heart: a brief pang of tenderness
That day, strawberry blood stained a button-up shirt
A bra, a breast, a chest
Where I come from, there are many strawberry farms, but they are pale, dry, sour, bland
Where I come from, a single Japanese strawberry can sell for $19.99 (+ tax)
They will turn on their cameras, slurp up every morsel of the fruit (leaves and stem and all), exclaim the absurdity of it all (an intentionally constructed perception of wealth based on the gentrification of strawberries that sell for 500 yen in the unmanned stand of a rural town), yet relish the capacity to do so—to flaunt the exclusive experience of zapping through cyberpunk Tokyo, cherry-blossoming Kyoto, and Studio Ghibli Hokkaido…
all through the bite of a $19.99 (+ tax) strawberry
So when I think back to the time
that I came across that unmanned strawberry stand
I want to burn it down
The berries will shrivel up
The coins will blacken
The shelves will collapse
The sky will fog in gray
Neighbors running out in a frenzy, exclaiming the obvious: there’s a fire!
Anyway—
I wash my work clothes and hang them on the balcony
Pink sways with the wind
It never washes out completely
The red from that day has long diluted
Decades pass, as they do…
…floating around the globe, whish whish, when suddenly—
On my deathbed, I awoke from an alarming dream
Immediately getting out of bed (escaping the grim reaper)
I started tending to the gardens
Hobbling through rocky soil and brittle weeds,
I crouch down to pick some strawberries
I hum a song—踊り子—as I work
Reeling back and forth
Flattening down styrofoam sheets
Arranging the stems outward
Snapping the lids shut
Jingle jingle
I twist a key into the blackened lock
And the coin box chains itself to the shelf
In that dream,
I had burned down the unmanned strawberry stand
It seemed appropriate
I knew I could never come across that place again,
be that ripe age (22) again,
feel that way again
The feeling was this: it was never about money. Balanced on wooden planks that someone nailed thud thud, the strawberries glazed under the sun to reflect hands that plucked them—off the stem and out the box. Between the berries, the island humidity, the 100 yen, our hands touched in spirit, by indirect contact. The strawberries eventually sold out, the coin box collected, the stand removed. But still I remember—
I burned it down completely
so that smoke shot up my nostrils (doctor’s note: permanent lung damage)
coins knock-knocked on my heart (doctor’s note: constant palpitations)
and my nose turned black (doctor’s note: stage III glaucoma)
In that dream,
I had burned down the unmanned strawberry stand
and collected its ashes for later use
Pressed them smooth into a heart-shaped locket
Silver and cheap, what pre-teens buy at book fairs
There was once a time when life was berry-sweet, and blood coursed through the veins. There was once a time when my neighbor trusted me with a clink clink coin box. And someone handled a red jewel with parental care. Wrapped them in styrofoam diapers and encased them for warmth. When was I last in diapers? 72 years ago and 1 day ago. I wanted and want nothing more than a wet wipe, a coddle, and a kiss.
Awaiting tomorrow’s sky
that will fog in gray
I slither back into death’s old bed
clutching my locket/d/t/d spasm spasm heart
that was once stained blood-bright red
Cover image by Mariam Finneran