Blackberry Season

It’s blackberry season 

there’s something red

on my hands

Tracing my veins

the crook of my elbow, 

vulnerable flesh, cracked

as sun-beaten earth

that stutters beneath

browning grass

a spider, 

scrambles her eight legs

and screams. 

Little black-legged body

pushing away 

my mouth.

Open lips,

entombing thorns,

a holy tongue.

Beware the wild ones

who emerge

with blackthorn scrapes,

all up their arms

running through

their blood.

You can’t escape 

the wild inside, beating

heart in harmony

with bushes and trees,

earth beneath your claws,

prey between your teeth,

rotting little soul

hungry, left bare 

by winter frost

Until you suck summer’s skin

a drunk mosquito,

magnificent in your 

maleficence, ripping

warm thorns 

from open flesh,

revelling in victory,

sweetness of the berry

blessed in blood.