who are we in this berry territory,
this forest meant for fur and eyes
that shine like marbles in the sun?
this sweet season yields melons,
syrup and sap, all of which
make sticky hands, sugary regrets.
the sun overhead rips my world into
skinny wisps of silk and burlap,
and weaves them into my hair.
if you could see me now, coated in light,
in the rainbows of oil spills,
I would kiss you as if cherries
grew in soft bundles in our fields,
as if tart meant something else.