Sitting on the worn path, I sucked
a wounded thumb, watching
my mother wade through thickets
of long, thorny stems. She claimed
the best berries, black as shiny tar
and plump with wild juice, were always
near the top. Thorns pulled her hair,
grabbed at her shirt, but she wore
each prick with a tight smile.
Nearby, catbirds feasted, a chipmunk,
cheeks quivering, scrambled to hide
in the brush. I studied the rotting logs
covered with moss, beer cans
and cigarette butts left over
from a local teen party, then pushed
my finger to my thumb as a single bead
of blood sprang from the spot
where I had reached for ripeness.
Years later, my first boyfriend, wild
with beer, drove his dirt bike through
this same brush while I sat behind him,
clutching his waist, my fingers hooked
around the belt loops of his jeans.
Boots protected my feet, jeans covered
my thighs, yet at home, I still found
scratches where thorns had found my skin.
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