BLACK BELLS
In Texas, in April,
when the blackberries—
plump and luscious and ready—
wait along the railroad tracks, I spend
mornings walking barefoot
on the hot gravel,
cramming
the tender blackness of spring
into my mouth,
drenching my tongue in
virginal sweetness, melting
the thick frost that has lived on my lips
since that dark day
he kissed me
goodbye.
—from Rattle #1, 1995
