Blueberry Picking

I left some haikus

In the car for her, written

In a brother’s crayon,

A waxy scrawl going at

Poetry.

 

She had interrupted me,

Pulled me from the words like

I was drowning, and

Told me we were going

Blueberry picking.

With

All

Three

Of

My

Siblings.

 

I never particularly liked

Blueberries:

They were said to be

Sweet, and yet,

They hurt, they were bitter

Like love really is,

Lied about like love really is,

But I cannot say

I was not enchanted by

The scene:

 

The orchard, covered in mesh like

We are fish in the

Blue blue blue ocean

Of dots,

Like we are fish in an

Aboriginal world,

But there are still homely white

Doors like you have to

Meet the queen by

Strolling through your mother’s

Kitchen. Listen:

This is the kind of place that lives

In fairytales,

The kind of place that

Gives me the strong desire

To just lie down and soak in the billions of years

Below me, but not beneath me,

 

It’s the kind of place where

You look up and see that

The sky cannot be blue

Like the blueberry

And that the little blue dots

Are stars for you, your endless

Night. And the blueberries themselves,

Aside from tasting like sweetness and

Royalty and tear-stained sugar you

Would die for, are so strikingly

Glorious:

 

They wear little crowns

On their heads, without jewels

Because they are in fact

The jewels, and whenever

You touch them you are touching

The Earth’s eyes, and they’re not all blue–

There are young and hard white ones,

Like stubborn pearls set into

An ivory neck, and the

Purple oddities, not quite ready to

Let go so easily like all the

Others do, like they have no other

Purpose in life than to please you.

 

The people on this farm,

We pay to pick their fruit,

To eat their jewels with eyes spilling

Out of our mouths as we grin,

As we grin and we wonder why

Nobody has ever wished to

Live in a blueberry garden

Like you do now, eating

 

Eyes and

Stars and

Pearls and

Oddities and

Jewels and

Crowns and

 

Wondering how you could ever

Put the beauties in a little

 

Box. Blueberries, you are

Too good for me.

 

Earth, you are

Too real for me.

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