_92. Blackberry

A plaque in this meadow memorializes
Thomas Cook, who must have loved
these sunny fields of Grantchester.
I would hope to be so lucky,
buried in the humid shade
of a blackberry bush swollen
with fruits darker than the darkest parts
of creation, blushing deeper
than the quietest places
between the limbs of the girl
I would make blackberry pies with
in college, crushing the ichorous fruit
in a bowl for its tannins and sugar.
She’s gone with Mr. Cook, now,
but like him was “courageous,
gifted, and loved.”
When the pies were finished we would fill
our mouths with what remained,
holy frenzy of relinquished restraint.
Today my teeth remember how
the sweet fruit yielded,
such an easy comfort, as I pick
little gifts from the grave
of Mr. Cook and place them
like a sacrament
on my tongue.