The Talk
    Barbara Deakins
The carpet is a strange shade of yellow,
shagged with worn spots and puppy accidents,
I've never looked at it so long
or cared so little.

You've paused and I suppose you want
some penitence, some tears,
some more promises.
To your hungry fear I offer
a plate of corned-beef resignation.

My words slide off your teflon face,
quick-fried, you salt them to taste
with dull suspicion,
wiping away the residue of anything.


    Barbara Deakins
The blackberry bramble
where I would tear up
arms legs hands
to get the rich black juice
to stain my mouth
a succulent wide purple.

It always seemed to me
the best were in the thickest
core of leaf and pain,
fat and hidden from view.

My momma would yell:
            They're all the same!
But to me
they always tasted sweeter
salted with blood.


In Posse: Potentially, might be ...