Poetry Month Day 6

Reading your meditations
on words and forms
and inexpressions, I want
to write wild blueberries
in wet August air
— a stiff shock of low bushes
on the exposed slope
above Petersburg Pass.

They are, no doubt,
a microscopic system
of particles, energies,
liquid osmosis, rising
to diploid chromasomes
sticky-tipped pistils and
pollen-coated filaments

as bodiless as the image
of the long-past day
when I picked them
with the man who had
not yet taught me
the absolute form
of my own body,

and still they lie
on the hill tonight,
root-stocks in half-frozen soil,
seeds cracking in the pulp
of fermented fruit,
the new, wet germ
of the flesh, juice and skin

that we tasted rain-wet
at the top of the pass
while lightening lept
and came on up the valley
— debating, if it struck
would it run downhill
and lap us round —

and charging the air
with the tang of berries
and the flushed skin
of his hand touching
the skin of a birch tree.


Prompts: NaPoWriMo, “food,” and 30/30 “the guilty chromosome” — which I’m adapting to “chromosome,” because I don’t think guilt belongs in any living body, especially not in the coding.

Photo at the top: Lowbush blueberries in blossom. Courtesy photo by Dawn Marsh.

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