The chanterelles have their come-hither
mystery, butteriness and scarcity, thick
orangey skin and kingdom, moss and rock.
But it’s to the wild blackberries’ taunt
we surrender: stand of canes arching heavy
crowns of night-purple glaze toward our
invisible fishing line of want, need. Deep
gully of thorns are men who’ve drawn
their swords, prickles are women
who try to shoo and murmur warnings:
slugs, thin-as-thread cuts and one day
you will wake alone, dear. September:
we return to the city as pie makers.
Published in "Sirsee"
No reviews yet.