*
Somewhere between blackberries, strawberries,
my father's gnarled old hands
and the deep, damp breath of his garden
the house moist and the basement dark
and in the bedroom there was a crooked bed, beautifully worn
still sifting through the walls the fragrance of my mother
and her raven eyes on all the furniture
us sitting in the little plastic basin in the sun
and the memory never deceiving me
*