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O red mystery, o berry

of childhood’s branch.

Powder of my school lunchbox,

a fingerdip surprise

for snack time, cherry dust

in a Tupperware nest.

O red iceberg, wobbling

on the tray, perfect

in your thick white bowl,

ridged like a glacial erratic,

mirroring the spoon’s imperfections.

Each spoonful must be pulled

by suction past the lips

to melt and sweeten

on the tongue.

O magical food,

too red to be real.