The Taste of Blueberries
Oh, yes, it could
have been another
season of waking
to the blueberries
that swelled, ripened during
the blue night, whole and full,
when we did or didn’t sleep,
and when we could wake
to rub our blurried eyes open
and wash our hands
clean of night and ripe
for morning and the ink
of the blueberries that could write
something over and over again
from the tips of our fingers if we chose
to rise and walk to the fields.
And even if we never spoke there
while picking and even if our fingers
bleeding blue never touched, we would know
why we were here picking blueberries together
in early morning, underneath the bird songs
and roosters’ calls. And even if
our lips never touched
the taste of blueberries,
they would be here, too,
with all of this wanting, wanting
all the same. And the longer
we stayed silent and the heavier
our buckets became full,
we would know we were here
for this. But this was not
that summer of blueberries
and neither was the last or the one
before that. And I’m here
choosing to pick blueberries
by myself, because the truth
of what I’ll never have this season
or any other, unless you arrive begging
for blueberried-stained kisses,
wakes me to these berries,
makes up for every year we’ll never have.
And knowing that
our lives were always meant
for this, this fruit still blooms
delicious inside my berried mouth.
