Plump fruits of summer, tumbling
into the cup of my hands,
filling my eyes with the generous
glut of their bounty.
In the mouth, on tongue, the feel of fur,
the first split of skin, trickle
of juices, the promise of zest,
teeth seeded in transparent flesh —
the tart ache in jaw.
Not this sudden choke; retch
gob of spittle, string of spit.
Finding they are scooped out
rank through; each glabrous worm
minding its own business, sucking
the last gooseberry to a husk
and a fool like me, comes along.
Marguerite Doyle holds an M.A. in Creative Writing from Dublin City University, Ireland and is interested in the exploration of our immediate surrounds as the poetic space. Her work has been published in The Galway Review, Mslexia, Vallum and the Ireland Chair of Poetry 2020 Special Commemorative Anthology Hold Open the Door.