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Mulberries
- The University Press of Kentucky
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376 LISTEN HERE MULBERRIES from Home Fires (1997) They fruit themselves into early June somewhere between the abelias and the blue-balled hydrangeas. In the backyard I'm crushing grapes with my skirts held high, squishing and purpled, the air rife with ferment. I stand in this kitchen of smells, the loaded tree a Bordeaux drunk slowly, burning all the way to my toes. People say cut it down, it doesn't bloom, it stains the sidewalk, the rugs, your shoes. What's a stain but the mark of memory you hope never fades-a spot of red-eye gravy from Grandmama's table every Sunday of my life, the flow ofwoman's wine telling my age season after season, as sharp as the yellowing bouquet I saved from her grave, as delicious as the first long day when the bikes come out and kids count off streetlights coming on from the corner to the bridge, their hands and mouths black from berry-eating, believing their wheels can take them anywhere. ...