Friday, July 04, 2008


Protruding from the wiry, spindly brush
with skin pulled tight like the head of a drum
encasing sweet, warm droplets of sun-ripe
ruddy juice--delicate and plump, teasing,
drawing a covetous gaze as velvet
tempts you to graze it with your hand or cheek.
Dark with soft, placating sheen collecting
all energy and light like small black holes
of deep summer, they ensnare and transfix
and you salivate and long for a taste
and the event horizon is traversed.
What could approach perfection so nearly
as a warm burst of tartness on your tongue
that stains your mouth, seeps into the creases
of your hands like hairline cracks in your skin
and just beneath, a reservoir of blood?
Oh, I remember blackberry-picking
and how the sting of nettles scrawling bloody
scratches on your arms was worth the reward--
pain for sweetness on your tongue, an exchange
some will never choose to make. But I hope
in my life to always pick blackberries.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

One could do worse than to be a picker of blackberries.