Cane borers hide in drupelet hollows.
Spiders lash vine to pliant vine.
My mother and I comb through leaves,
filling our plastic buckets with red.
As we gather, my mother whispers,
when you hear the voice of the Lord
you will hear my voice,
and forages deeper
into the lush tangle.
Rinsing the fragile, swollen
berries in a bronze colander.
My little feet daubed with mud
tracked from door to sink.
My mother’s cheek brushed
with a streak of mud.
She crushes the tart flesh,
blending it with sugar and pectin.
The living room hush draws me,
the itch of sun on my face,
I immerse myself in cushions,
anxious of what will find me.