Blackberries - Jane L. Mickelson

[Larry Robinson]

Blackberries
 
It must be August.
Brambles have taken over the roads,
have conquered the verges
and now invade the rest.
The long fingernails of blackberry canes
run down the blackboard of my car.
"Sweeeeeeeet!" they shriek,
"Sweet, sweeeeeet,"
until I am driven mad with lust,
abandon the vehicle,
heedless of clothing or skin
and plunge into Sleeping Beauty's barrier,
a briar hoard of juice.
 
Drunk with sugar,
rival to hornets and wasps
I bumble from berry to berry,
wade in, then back out
against an ebb tide of claws.
Stigmata bloom: my blood or the plant's?
Perhaps a blend of both.
Later, at home, consuming crumble or tart,
I wonder at fine red road maps
etched on forearms and shins;
sweetness purchased at a price
I did not know
I was paying at the time.
 
It must be August.
Endings and beginnings
stand back to back.
Harvest's gloss eclipses
winter's pending loss,
and tangled caverns of seasons past
buttress this moment's bounty;
when Then and Yet-to-Be mingle--
dead cane and subtle seed--
and haunt the sweet sharp syrup
of this summer's day seduction.
 
    - Jane L. Mickelson