The Blackberry

The mud is holy. The house is haunted. The stinging nettle loves the blackberry, as much as any plant can and my therapist says I must ask my parents for the money that is owed me. Cows nurse their young. Snails retreat to shell; I disappoint and will go to hell. When I was ten my mother laid on grass and looked at sky. She commented on shade and sun. It was the beginning of my coming undone. She didn’t do enough to save me. How do you sing six thousand dollars? My therapist says it is always about control and I want a shell to sink into, unreachable. I was gifted a disorder of morality and shame. How does one repay? You cannot love what strangles you. You cannot hate what made you. I say I’m done being a better daughter. The riptide doesn’t care, pulls me under, drowning, drowning, don’t bring your father into this. Give it time it’ll falter.  

Geese return. Clouds gather. Smoke loves company. The girl inside remains unhealed, acts out her misery in the space between heartbeats. Yours. Mine. Yours. Mine. The cows graze only on moss, damp with wailing. The light in the window warm, mothering deception. Promises sugar, easily unspun. I bleed, thicker than water. Insert violence into a tale of quiet, domestic terror. And under it all a river. The camera holds, blinks, flashes. The cows move on. The night dawns.