Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue Two

Judith Skillman

The Blackberry Hedge in Autumn

Here the birds come to twitter about what's left after the harvest moon grows orange and swollen, so heavy it finally falls from the sky. I hear your argument again. You'll be the slow suicide, eat yourself to death with sugar. No better way to go, the birds say, with a sound that plays like joy on a day so dank it's good it will end early, finish with a glimpse of sun yellow as the last plum tomato left to ripen inside a tire rim. It's a thick thing to be left behind, the birds sing. Better late than never. I hear their platitudes blend with chimes someone has set outside a window to catch breezes off the lake. Whatever metal's left in me has gone soft. Here the birds lose a major scale and find it plaited to the minors. There's nothing left to resolve, only the laggard pace of fall, stale leaves rotting in a ditch. Poplar, birch, oak, cherry. What difference does it make? The songbird orchestra tunes, checks one reed against another, ostracizes a gull the color of lake water. One more pedestrian idea gone to seed. That I could save you from your own appetites? The blackberries picked over, shrunken, bitter, too far gone to matter.