It’s gonna be a good year
for jam, you tell me, pounds
of serviceberries I've never tasted
heavy your arms. Midwest summers
are new to my mouth, their easy
sprawling sweetness. I grew
across the waters, on black soil
& even blacker cherries, sour boiled
down to saccharine preserves, as much
whole fruit as can be salvaged, skin
& stem, even pits, stirred or steeped
enough, can be swallowed.
My great-great-grandmother
must have been swirling
a sticky sea, sugar in place of salt, when
land shifted beneath her—or a child
screamed or a dog or her husband,
but no, what man would be found anywhere
near the kitchen if his woman is
already there? The scald
swelled over, spilling down
her thigh, a tidal wave disintegrating
fabric to flesh, solid to liquid scorched
solid again. Her daughters never saw
the scar, but I imagine a mountain
range of volcanic tissue & wonder
if her husband had tended  
the burns & if his hands
would wander there after
the wounds had healed. I'm learning care
can be gentle. My body meant
for more than just survival.
Your fingers will be stained
ripe when I tell you this
story, your kitchen overflowing
pots & strainers & mason jars & you
will turn the burner low & I will
be waiting in your living room, bare-
legged on the couch. You’ll bring
your mouth, hot & careful
to my outer thigh, a blue
bowl of your hand’s
fresh-picked berries
balanced in my lap.

—Julia Kolchinsky

Poet’s Website

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