Near the creek behind my grandmothers house
a long-lost version of me plucks berries from a vine.
I squish the pods between my finger and thumb.
Popping the pebble fruit from its delicate skin.
I bring it to my mouth to taste in secrecy.
I crouch to pick up the summer shed of a Copperhead.
Dark juice splattered on my tee shirt,
a stain Mama can’t rub clean.