French Like Wild Blackberries

a poem & where it came from

Over the next few months I thought I’d share some of the poems I’ve published in the last few years with a line or two about where they came from.

A Poem

French Like Wild Blackberries

That’s not quite French, she said, lips
Pursed to the side. It’s like a creole

Not one or the other. Just one house down
Always from being right, one footstep

One century, one president. With soul closed,
Judgement open of course she can’t see

Complex webs of light and life, drums you feel in
Your ribs, warm plantains, and french like wild blackberries

Originally Published by Eunoia Review, December 2021

Where it came from:

In the summer of 2021, my partner Patrick was injured and confined to one floor of the house for months. In the first couple of weeks, I needed to get out of the house and do something that brought me back to earth.

Many mornings that summer, I drove the 10 or so minutes to Allegheny Riverfront Park at 6 a.m. to practice yoga by the water. It was usually quiet except for the sounds of birds, the river, and sometimes the coffee machine starting at Farmer x Baker.

This is one of the poems that came to me at the end of my yoga practice—though there were many: some that stuck, others that didn’t. I never had paper with me so I wrote them in the Notes app on my phone. I think this one had been simmering from earlier in the week when I had a call with a potential French tutor online and explained to her that I live with someone who also speaks French in additional to Kreyol (which is, by the way, a totally separate language). After her response reflected above in the poem, I didn’t end up booking with her again.