Wild Blackberries The chanterelles have their come-hither mystery, butteriness and scarcity, thick orangey skin and kingdom, moss and rock. But it’s to the wild blackberries’ taunt we surrender: stand of canes arching heavy crowns of night-purple glaze toward our invisible fishing line of want, need. Deep gully of thorns are men who’ve drawn their swords, prickles are women who try to shoo and murmur warnings: slugs, thin-as-thread cuts and one day you will wake alone, dear. September: we return to the city as pie makers. Published in "Sirsee"