Berry-Picking

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.