In July the huckleberries ripened.
Bushes swarmed with honeybees and wasps.
We worked in pairs, first scouting
from a bluff for clustered crops. I filled
my pail, my fingers gashed and bloody with the juice.
In corners where the rest would never guess
we’d gone, I gave you fistfuls,
berries from my hoard. Our stomachs swelled;
the black juice stained the innocence of smiles.
We lay on moss banks thick as suede.
I told you that your lips were Beaujolais,
unsure of what I meant. You stroked my chin
and swore to wear the letters of my school.
Our friends would never see us as we were:
my hands, the rose-blown color of your teats.