U-Pick Blueberries
By Amanda Boyle
In late-July sun
my mother and I
kneel in the
dry, sandy earth
staining our knees
with crushed blueberries
as we drop plump fruit
in our bucket
and I shove fistfuls
in my mouth.
The sun bakes my neck
and the voices of my aunts
two rows over
drift on the heavy air.
Another
sister has become trapped
with a man
who doesn’t love her
and two young children
inadvertently hold her hostage.
My mother’s silence
noticed only by me
as I pluck the berries
from the bottom of the bush
my hands stained purple
as her bruised heart
that wants to believe
it is still loved.