Picking Mulberries

photo by Marie Martin

Here, where only a week ago
the rooster hung with its throat cut, 
I spread a tarp 
and climb the ladder
to shake branches so the fattest berries
drop like hail.

Gathering them in buckets,
my fingers turn a violent blue. 
Sweat drips from the point of my nose,
dotting the tarp. It’s been a month

without rain, and the hope of it
starts to wither like the arugula 
drooping in the field. Through my shirt, 

I feel my heart—
the day’s heat making it thunder, 
pumping blood
the color of my stained hands.