The mulberries drip purple and sweet on my tongue.
I can’t remember a childhood summer without their stains.
Mama cursed each season of their ripening.
Yet she worked her magic with berries,
sugar, and piecrust into culinary perfection.
Hypnotized by the scent of fresh baked pie
our family of five would sit around a chrome kitchen table
chewing silence with amethyst glossed smiles.
It is so nice to taste memories without tears.
There is part of me that wants to paint my skin
with mulberries and pretend bruises never brought any pain.
©Susie Clevenger 2013
At Real Toads Grace challenged us to use food as the backbone for our poems.