Blackberry Harvest
by Keith S. Wilson
With fingers dirty—and some
threshold-straddling feet—
I was picking for the census.
This quiet home, his paper,
split for me to three refined
columns to Rome within.
If it wasn't dinner time,
if I was 16 instead of poor,
I might have listed everything
I've ever been accused of.
Mistaken for. Lumped with.
And shown him the dotted lines
of the green card that came
with this brand of skin.
But I was hungry still,
so I let it be, for the sake
of this proceeding. Twilight,
which always leaves us empty.
threshold-straddling feet—
I was picking for the census.
This quiet home, his paper,
split for me to three refined
columns to Rome within.
If it wasn't dinner time,
if I was 16 instead of poor,
I might have listed everything
I've ever been accused of.
Mistaken for. Lumped with.
And shown him the dotted lines
of the green card that came
with this brand of skin.
But I was hungry still,
so I let it be, for the sake
of this proceeding. Twilight,
which always leaves us empty.
Keith S. Wilson is a member of the Affrilachian Poets and editor for the multi-lingual online journal Public-Republic. Some of his recent publications include Appalachian Heritage, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Evergreen Review, and Breadcrumb Scabs. Keith currently lives in Northern Kentucky.