No pumped-up, tasteless decorator
berries here, just this thin box
warped and stapled, heavy with its heap
of small fruit, radiantly red.
 
When I hand over a few bills
to the freckled girl stretching
her long legs toward me, I feel I've gotten
away with something—
 
I'm five again, Mother busy
inside with the baby, and I've made myself
scarce, stretched out on my belly
in our garden patch, sandy soil
 
warm as a body holding me. The house
with its sad smell of milk, diapers
soaking in a pail— it's off in the distance now,
nearly disappeared. I'm snaking my hand
 
into the ticklish leaves to pluck
a sun-warmed berry, popping
it into my mouth. And another. Another.
No waiting till later. I don't have to be
 
patient; I don't have to be good.
No bigger than the tip of my thumb,
sweet berries in their little green caps,
fragrant, beaded with tiny seeds—
 
Birds have picked some over already,
leaving, not holes exactly, but glimpses
of tender white bellies, unadorned.
When I touch the messy edge of one
 
it feels like a secret I shouldn't know.
My fingers are stained. I admire them,
lick them a little, feel tension
in the stem as I pull at another berry.
 
My teeth carry the flesh to my pleasured
tongue, and juice keeps the sweetness
going. The seedy nubs give just enough
resistance. Everything I want.

This poem first appeared in Long River Run.
Used here with permission.