I loved raspberries

when I was growing up, little enough
to just fit inside one if
I clutched my toes.
When I exhale I expand, so
I hold my breath tight.


Mom told me to spit
out the seeds, but I never did,
they’re still stuck.


I miss the people who’d hiss
raspberries, let their tongues inhabit
the notches between each globule.


My skin is vibration, reverb-
eration. I tremble because of lightning,
that snap in the sky,
a break, between
solid chunks of one star
split in two, glory
slipping through nightfall.


I’ll jump a tightrope through

raspberry ache, let the space

turn me into stillness. 


Rebecca Oet lives in Ohio. She is the winner of the silver medal in national Scholastic Writing Awards, River Of Words Youth Poetry Grand Prize, VOYA Magazine’s Teen Poetry Contest and the Short Poems challenge on Young Poets Network. She published poetry in Teen Ink, Tears in the Fence, *82 Review, and others.