See previous post for commentary on this poem. Like Black Seeds, this was written at the Stanford Discovery Institute for Creative Writing - a three week summer program focusing on fiction and poetry at Stanford University. I studied here the summer before my senior year of high school. Warning: This poem may cause hunger.
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Blackberry Jam
Too sour
Causing pursed, stained lips
Her eyes - peering behind a broken face
Ghostlike whiteness, pinned pupils
Hands - old and dry as the hills were
On that summer day in the grassy field
When the whirring wind lifted up your shirt
The sun, painting an orange silhouette across your face
Mother says, "Spread the jam. Do not dip your fingers in the jar."
But I do not listen - licking my blackened palms one by one
Too sour
Causing pursed, stained lips
Her eyes - peering behind a broken face
Ghostlike whiteness, pinned pupils
Hands - old and dry as the hills were
On that summer day in the grassy field
When the whirring wind lifted up your shirt
The sun, painting an orange silhouette across your face
Mother says, "Spread the jam. Do not dip your fingers in the jar."
But I do not listen - licking my blackened palms one by one
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