The Red Berries ( P O E M )

“If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don’t write, because our culture has no use for it.” ~ Anais Nin

 

Berries 

I was seven,

a vivid scene,

 five-star for mis-en-scene.

 

It was a long table,

taken from a summering garage,

set up cross-ways on the sidewalk,

a suburban barricade.

 

It had been set,

with handfuls of red berries,

 two little girls stood fiercely,

ready,  and waiting.

 

Now the faces are misty,

So I fill them in with cliche.

Yes, yes one was cherubic,

brown curls and freckles,

think thin mint eyes.

 

The other,

we need a blonde,

lean, and slender,

to go with the times.

 

“You have to eat one of our berries” said ___.

“I don’t want to.” I replied.

“You have to,” said ____#2.  “Or we’ll spank you!”

 

I cried. I was only seven.

This was a great, big deal,

getting spanked,

outdoors on a table,

by mean little girls,

with poisonous berries.

 

I went home,

to my own summering garage,

with tears and rage,

still strong and clean.

 

I took the biggest rake,

and gave Joseph the shovel.

Sarah carried the smaller hoe.

She was only four after-all.

We marched down the side walk,

a parade of lawn tools,

we clanged our metal against the cement.

 

But they tattled on us,

–our enemies!

They went screaming

and crying to their mother,

who called my mother.

 

I curled up that afternoon,

licking my wounds,

and a cherry popsicle.

War was over for the day.

 

Who’d have known then,

thirty-two years later,

I’d still be consumed,

with the problems of  thinking,

about mothers and war.  

 

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