Berries

In nettled underbrush
along the fence line, we hunted
June dewberries with greed
like a bellyache.
Sweet melting juice of unwashed fruit
purpled our lips and tongues,
rolled warm and gritty
down our throats.

Later
we abandoned berry hunts,
left sweetness to drop away
into the nest of briars that tickled
our fingers with warning.

Through lifetimes chasing
that taste of summer,
cafe cobblers disappointed,
too rich, too heavy
in presentation.

What we forgot:
berries tasted better dusty,
with stained hands stinging, and before
our mothers drowned
the naughty tartness in milk