Blackberry Lady

This week, I received an e-mail from a concerned writer requesting verification of my continued existence. Indeed I write, therefore I live. It may seem I don’t get around much anymore, but I am still active in the writing community. I do read many of your works you’ve posted on blogs and/or provided links for, but I haven’t been able to consistently leave feedback. Alas, a positional change at my place of employment has left a significant strain.

Somehow I’ve managed to complete several pieces of poetry. I share one with you.


Blackberry Lady

The moon breaks like a mirror.
The Blackberry Lady flashes her teeth
and a sundial turns its nose up toward the sky.
It is an art of light to cut yourself in two.

She is oil and vulnerable,
paint on the nails of canvas, parchment.
Her crimson dress is torn at the hem,
Cimmerian legs push through as stalactites.

I perch below the cavern of her expression.
She smiles like a river dries,
slips off bittersweet sandals.
Toes wiggle frantic as earthworms.

This is the Blackberry Lady, the bramble of youth.
I take her by her narrow waist and squeeze.
She drinks the sun from a muddy skull,
points a finger in my direction.

It is not love, but I crave this dark fruit.
She offers me a rose to knead.
Thorns are nipples on her breasts.
Our blouse stains with indignation.

The moon breaks like a mirror.
I catch our reflection in a shard of glass.
Her eyes drip sugar without the aid of light,
yet fail to sweeten mine.


Copyright 2010, Angel Zapata, all rights reserved.