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Raspberries
Fresh raspberries taste like summer
One berry on my tongue, between my teeth
is a portal to my grandparents’ backyard
to wet hair, bare feet and the scent of sunblock
to a time of childhood idyll
My aunt passes me green beans rinsed in the chlorinated water
of the above ground pool that for a couple of months every year
means I have a hint of popularity
I learn how to pick raspberries as I learn how to pick my battles
She shows me how they will fall off the bush with the slightest touch
when they are ripened
I pick them too soon every year
their tartness made sweeter by virtue of being illicit
My impatience gets me yelled at, but I savor my rebellion
The raspberries I buy every summer
do not taste as sweet as the sun-warmed berries of my youth
before I learned that idylls are always gilded
The technicolored memories still curve my lips into a trace
of a smile
as I savor the taste of freedom
