Lily Smith

 
Blackberries

She used to cut slits in the top of the cobbler

to let it breathe.

She lived in the shotgun shack

across the way—

bathroom outside like the old days.

The original honey chile.

 

We picked blackberries by the highway—

burnt cherub and plum blue—

that bled and swirled against our skin

in tiny estuaries till the lifelines of our palms

all ran together.

Kneading the heads of the berries

 

between my fingertips, I could

hear the blue jays cawing overhead

at my handiwork, vengeful juice

trickling down my arms in dark amethyst streams,

my lips smeared and bruised—

swollen to the gut.

 

Her children's children

sucking the pads of their tawny feet in the

truck belly, my willow eyes wide.

Let the crust cool, she said.

But my fingers wandered over buttered

edges and hovered over steam.

 

It was summer. A storm was congregating over head.

Lily Smith is a Thai-American poet from Athens, GA. She is currently studying psychology at the University of Massachusetts Lowell and hopes to receive her master's degree in the near future. Lily enjoys shaking down the patriarchy, combating stigma, and her pets Kinsey, Nova, and Kitty Bean. She is always on a quest for the perfect taco. This is her first publication. 

 
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