Mulberry Season

by Julia McMullen

MULBERRY SEASON

The internet says they are invasive.

Saplings cling tightly to the earth,

tender leaves seek out any patch of sun and thrive…

I cannot relate. I forgot the sun existed

after my son was born.

I wish my hands would have reached

like these branches,

stealing sunlight,

dappling the ground below

with light and shade and abundant fruit.

But my survival skills are limited,

I am an amateur hunter-gatherer,

my hands fumble for the ziploc,

I talk to my son while I pluck

black and red from the untended branches.

My hands bleed purple—

the flesh so tender and easily broken,

and I a clumsy thief, startling

at cars as they whir past,

startling at birds who flutter

as I disturb their refuge.

One berry falls behind my son

it bursts between his back

and the stroller, leaving a purple bloom

that stains his skin.

I startle then, too. The old anxieties

rustle in my chest, but

it is the berry and not him,

it is the juice

and not a bruise; we taste sweetness

on our lips and sunshine on our skin

and this is a happy consequence.

The cracked sidewalk bumps the wheels

of the stroller as we head home, my feet

dodge thistles, my hands still purple

with summertime.

JULIA MCMULLEN

Julia McMullen is a poet living in the Midwest with her husband and young son. Her work has been published in Foreshadow Magazine. When she isn't writing or mothering, she enjoys singing at her local church and tending to her garden. You can read more of her work at juliamcmullen.com.
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