You dig through the fridge
for the plastic box of berries.
You unclick the top,
roll a handful into a bowl,
run the tap over the fruit.

Hours ago, we ate
ice cream and apple pie
that we baked from scratch.
Our stomachs are full.
Our clothes splotched with flour.

The berries swim in the bowl
alongside their own stems,
dirt and loose drupelets.
You use your hand
to strain the water.

Everything unable to sustain us
leaks through the
spaces in your fingers.
By some miracle of restraint
the berries remain unharmed.

You place the
impromptu snack,
still dripping,
before my grief, glistening
like jewels of rain stolen from the sky.