Fresh Memory

...still a little bit of your taste in my mouth...


Blackberry, in your hand, pulled from the bush so tenderly as to neither bruise nor break it, avoiding stains on flesh and clothing. From the bush, in the sunshine, dark and shiny where you've rubbed it carefully on your shirt. In your mouth, smooth and warm, slightly gritty where dust from the gravel road collected in its crevices, squirting heavy juice behind your teeth. In your throat, a little lumpy, the flesh inadequately chewed to defend against molar-grabbing seeds, slippery and sweet sliding down down to join the previous one, to be followed quickly with another. Blackberry bush, found beside the sunny dusty road, next to the field of fragrant young corn, bearing fruit so rare and precious you hate to leave any for the birds, and fill the hem of your shirt with the rest of the berries, knowing the shirt will be ruined, not caring. Holding the hem of your shirt in one hand, with the other reach for the last bright jewel on the bush, holding it delicately in your fingers before popping it in your mouth to crush, gently, bit by bit, between soft palate and tongue, dark juice filling your mouth with whispers of wine and moonlight and music, blackberry, freshly plucked.



(Cannonball; Damien Rice)