Glass Poetry Press

Volume Three Issue Two

M.J. Iuppa


By twilight, clouds gather over the lake, looking like mountains still cold with snow. I shiver in my awkward stance, plucking berries at a steady pace until I fill a bucket full of deep blue. I'd like to think my thoughts immaculate in this process. Claim that I don't eavesdrop on a family's dispute un-spooling between the rows, but I do. I listen with a small fever, a desire to hear how they will resolve into retrograde — their wagon wheels wobbling away … Between the leaves I think I know it all until I hear another set of tires turn over stones — faint car radio — Spanish voices liquid in laughter — I can't grasp their happiness or why they're making fun while leaving berries behind — ones too tart or ones the size of nickels — ones I wouldn't have found if I hadn't been picking quietly in the background.