Wineberries
by Kathryn Gessner
Hungry in summer, always
far from home when it hit.
I learned to forage, chew sassafras,
cup berries in my palms.
Turned itchy by nightfall,
poured calamine on my legs.
I don’t get poison ivy anymore.
Wineberries, sticky and delectable as they are,
festoon with competing insects.
As I push through to the moist ripe ones,
small bloody etchings appear on my shins.
Mulberries have no thorns;
but I must go a long way to the tree.
My grandmother’s tree
grew over the driveway, stained my feet, lips,
hands, and tie-dyed the worn
leather of sandals.
If I stayed long enough beneath the tree,
others would fade away, and solitary,
tugging down the branches, reaching up,
nothing but twilight handfuls
carried me back to my bed.