All the new thinking is about loss
my toddler probably thought
as I tore him away from the thicket
of his first taste
of blackberry, blackberry, blackberry,
from the edge of the new word
not yet amassed
in his mouth.
It tastes like a baby,
his word for blueberry,
but darker, more grown-up, more
fitting for one going on two—more,
he could say, and did,
and I picked more and more
but knew he wouldn’t stop until he’d had
the whole wild bramble.
It was hot, he was tired.
I picked him up and he kicked,
screamed, and bit me,
left a drupelet of teeth marks
on my shoulder, a bruise
berrying up
as I bore him away
the long way back
and saw two dogs
which means
more than one
and saw several p
which means planes.
Such a thinket of thoughts
coming to fruition
in his mouth and mind,
my little minikin,
my little berry
and all the way
I carried him because
he would not walk,
all the way he was saying
up, up, up, up, up, up.

Rebecca Hoogs

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