Blackberries

I want to run wild through that berry field
behind the brick house my father bought
when I was seven and skinny and still
a natural blond with naive, blue eyes.
I might even wear a white, linen dress
and satin gloves like I wore the last time
I saw it on Easter Sunday when I was nine.
It would be just past dusk,
and the snuffed-out sun would veil
my pale skin and shade the tip
of my bridgeless, up-turned nose.
Feverishly, my white gloved hands
would ravage the bushes, ripping
at bloated berries until
my wrists were smeared with blood-black juice.
I would shove a fistful in my mouth,
sour drool staining my thin lips blue,
much bluer than my stale, gray eyes,
and I'd lick berries from my dripping skin
until my father called me home.