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.