Glass Berries

for my grandmother


My head lays on the soft folds

of her periwinkled apron,

draped across her ample lap.

I sniff Atlantic blue flowers-

Smell white starched cotton.


Her work-worn hands

stroke honey glazed hair.

A kitten, sleeping in sunlight,

I purr inside my ribs.

We ride in skimmed stillness.


Dove gray car heads through

cayenne walls of canyons,

where we pick black glass

berries from patient drooping limbs.


She, in periwinkled apron,

makes syrup for my pancakes,

boils berries down with white

sugared sand until flesh submits,

floats away from pulp, lifeblood.


Pushed through the sieve,

berries surrender last golden

day of summer, where they clung

to rusty wool limbs, safe from

raucous ravens and mockingbirds…


but not from grasping hands.