Berries
If truth were told in drupelets,
we would have jam
all seedy and smashed
like none of us glisten, whole anymore.
maybe we try, but break—
berryskin ourselves of
boundary
Perhaps a person can hold
shrivel
and still tell their story.
Salmon, marion, thimble, and rasp,
logan, boysen, and juice of black,
Maybe years past this
years onward
we will reach
into pantry
hand each other
jars of preserves
fill our bellies
with history, and say
“I couldn’t give you this before,
couldn’t keep it clean enough."
Maybe then we will drag butter
knives across chasm, marveling—
at how long we went hungry.
Reece Rowan Gritzmacher
lives in a mountain town surrounded by ponderosa pines, but grew up hugging trees in the Pacific Northwest. Their poetry and prose have appeared or are forthcoming on Sundog Lit, Bending Genres, Barrelhouse, and elsewhere. A recent graduate of Northern Arizona University's MFA program, they are currently working on a couple of books about settler colonialism, queerness, and a missing creek. They work at a public library and serve on the board of the Northern Arizona Book Festival. You can find them at www.reecegritzmacher.com.