I want to write poetry and nothing is coming.
It feels like that elusive orgasm and the frustration is killing the mood.
The poem that I want to write is about the blackberries that were bulldozed last week, over on the abandoned lot. Someone’s house will take their place.
The mistake was thinking that those blackberries were ours,
and that they are a metaphor that I have not yet
grown to understand.
The poem would be about grief and beauty, about watching you avoid the thorns and laughing when you couldn’t.
We would take the leather gloves and a paint splattered ladder,
pick a clear summer day with a sunset,this matters because the sun doesn’t always set here .
The blackberries were always best warm
with the day fading like a poem that I can almost remember, second best is eating them out of your hands which would happen in the winter when we are snowed in and eating the remnants of last summer because it’s all we have.
Stolen berries, summers, memories, bulldozers, each other in this moment– it’s all we will ever have and we will have them –whether the poetry comes or not, and poetry–
she always comes.