By Abby McCullough
Hanging vines Summer sweat Barefoot on the smooth bumps of cobblestone Two weeping mulberry bushes took up the front yard Two brothers fabricate our childhood adventures One was gnarled and had knobs to climb into the jungle scenes The other stood tall and had a perfect perch-branch for our spy stakeouts Early July is mulberry season I can remember a day I ate too many berries My hands and Easter dress: stained purple with shame But my mouth was stained indigo with naïve curiosity Mulberries are a natural laxative, I learned that day We used to play Badminton between the trees Tying the net between the two fantasy worlds we created We’d use the rackets to swat the wood bees under my grandmother’s porch By the middle of the month mulberries were gone to birds passing and snacking