We picked blueberries instead of brambles,
our fingers bled black juice—
we were babies suckled on midnight milk.
The afternoon smelled of cobbler,
smelled of store-bought cream
cresting into peaks—
the sun turned blue that summer,
our skirts limp, our mouths bursting,
our boyish chests burst with berries
until we mewed like babies
sated and content.
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