The berries stained our
teeth, our fingers,
our bed linens
coated in color.
Were we ever pure,
I cried and my tears were plum.

Our hair laid damp in the foggy
morning orchard air.
The nursery cats greeted us,
and their blue eyes were round enough
to be the blueberries that hung on the fragile vines.

Fragile limbs, bruises left the color
of raspberries and blackberries.
Bruises not visible on suntanned skin,
but the vessels were broken
under the surface.

These kinds of wounds don’t heal quickly, she cooed.
I remember being disappointed in myself for picking the
berries that were still green, that weren’t quite ripe.