Catherine

17

Miami in a Berry Shrub

This is where Summer, her veins knotted like stems,
patted my hand after the blueberries
left a black love bite on my bottom lip.
I think she was old by then
in my aunt’s small garden.

She was waiting for Autumn with me,
wondering if it’ll bring me more sweethearts,
string salted-winds round my neckline,
and if the blueberry stain would still be smeared
where the late harvest left a bold hello. It was night then.

She said the moon’s grace
made the berries taste more acidic,
as I pulled the last stubborn ones
loose from their nest and bit down.
The trickle of the juice betrayed
the subtleness of her departure,
her will already broken for this year.