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As if blackberries were a thing
to comprehend by arranging them
in a wood bowl with an undisclosed
light source. As if adding a spritz of
water could glisten the skin enough
to conjure their ruby sourness. As if
a token stem spiked with thorns
could evoke fingers scratched and stained
while plucking the beady ripe fruit
from its vicious canes. Feel those
slivers of dried stamen that poke
between beads and prick the tongue.
Can't you imagine it—sweaty fruit
bleeding out in the bottom of a rough bowl,
that tang in your mouth, that almost
unseemly sweetness I told you about?