The Blueberry
A plastic tray
on a shelf
bursts with
indigo pellets.
I sometimes think
my children have forgotten
that blueberries come from a bush,
a shrub, a rather finicky plant,
if we’re talking truth.
But you know! You knew!
Hallelu! You knew!
And I did, too.
Yes, I knew, too.
Standing in the produce aisle,
I pop open that lid,
grab a handful,
chalky skins,
puckered little bottoms,
and all.
I caress one berry,
origin erased
by an enforced convenience,
and don’t think I’m arguing
(though I am, I am).
I shove those
juicy beads
into my mouth
and close my eyes.
Wild, green fingers
reach for me,
dressed not in blues,
but in the richest purples.