Mostly it consists of pretending
not to pick them, since the wild bush--
more a tree really, thrives in plain
view among scrub pines, along the road
that leads to the Truro sea. So when cars
near, we turn from the bush, busying
our hands in air, as if plucking a thread
of conversation started ages back--
which, between my mother and me,
must be the case. When a car gets far
enough away, we resume our harvest:
hands and lips stained with what
the season tenders: the fat or compact
berries that will never be sweeter than
this moment. I say this in the present
tense, as if the harvesting goes on.
I recall my mother doubled over
in laughter, midsummer, by that bush,
and a man in a blue truck stopping.
I'm a doctor, he said. Are you ill?
Physicians are trained to see what's
amiss, what they might fix. Bliss,
from a distance, can look like pain.
But it was bliss, I'm thinking now,
speeding past all those ghosts in flower.
--Andrea Cohen
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