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poetry


BLACKBERRIES
by
Diana Smith

The barís TV shows a commercial with

someone like my mother

lifting blackberries in baskets,

something she has never done. I drink, watch

the waitress with kohl eyes

who conjures herself in black smoke.

My mother avoided black until her

fifties, already thin,

and liked the light reflecting up

to her tight temples that glowed a dim fire

from the bright floral

pattern draped on her thin shoulders.

She gardened in pink, shooing the bees with

green gloves like long leaves.



Diana Smith grew up in Jackson, Mississippi, and is still painfully Southern. She earned her MFA at the University of Florida and now teaches creative writing, literature, and composition at Southwest Texas Junior College in Del Rio, Texas. Her poems have appeared in or are forthcoming from 32 Poems, elimae, and SALiT.



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