Picking blueberries is where we begin.
Picking blackberries stain my clothes and skin.
Picking strawberries is hard on mama’s back.
Picking raspberries is when we come back.
but of all the berries my hands pick
my favorite is the one that makes me homesick.
I fill my bag with so much to carry
but I'm happy because it's the liberry.
Farmworker | Queer Elder | Latinx Jedi | Sexy Fat | Writer & Editor: Pulse/Pulso and Fat & Queer
April 2, 2013
berries | National Poetry Month
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