Sloe Gin In August

Round and ready Fit to burst They grow like grapes here Cheek to cheek they bend the bones of the branches Every year Two daughters A mother A grandmother Rid the jewels of their armour Delicately balancing beauty between thumb and forefinger Tough Like compacted snow I know I know that one swift squeeze and summer would seep Right through its purple skin In the basket that lays on the ground Their silver crowns reflect the sun Straight up to our thighs and hips and cheeks They proudly await their fate. A drop in the deep Bitter liquid Three months of bleeding sweetness in the dark The end.