My poem "mulberries" published in Salish Magazine
Recently I had a new poem published in Salish Magazine's summer 2025 issue. Their theme was berries, and hooray, I happened to have written a poem about mulberries. They don't grow wild in the PNW, as far as I know, but the editor liked my poem nevertheless. Thanks, Salish!
You can see my poem and other poems about berries here: https://salishmagazine.org/poetry-28-a/ One of these poets, Nancy Taylor, is my student! Double hooray!
mulberries
by Amanda Williamsen
there is a dirt road — a steep hill — rainwater ruts crisscrossing
the road and rolling to a mossy canal — there are three steel culverts,
an earthen berm for a bridge — and a girl on a blue bicycle, flying
downhill — through the woods, over the canal, out from shade
into blinding sun — whipping down the farmer’s lane — her eyes shut
— this lane lined with wild mulberry trees — her long black hair
snapping behind her like a torn flag — arms shaking — knees bent, thighs
bunched — hunched and hovering like a jockey who never touches the saddle —
gravel scatters — and the wind drags tears over her temples and into her hair
in the floodplain now, the road a straight shot to the river — acres of corn
flapping past— their green applause—and the mulberry trees sparkle
with jewels, gleaming fruit in every shade of ripeness — a hard, unready
white — a pink like the inside of a clamshell — bitter crimson — feral
purple — and a black so rich it falls in the road — in ruts dug deep
by the heavy combine — puddles after thunderstorms — the bicycle tires
spray mud onto her legs — she can stand, can rake a hand
through the branches — snatch some chattering leaves and a berry or two —
she can peel out before she hits the abandoned white cottage on the bank
this is June — is July — is August — is the summer she is fourteen —
sharing the bike and the mud — picking mulberries with her sister
— and their neighbor with a pretty blond ponytail — and the boy with the boat —
this quartet in the kitchen when she — ta da! — pulls a mulberry cream pie
from the freezer — she made it herself — have some? — and only the boy
shrugs and gives it a try — it’s terrible — truly awful — but he smiles —
and now what, all these mulberries — what else are they good for —
tie-dyeing, of course — and it’s back to the riverbank with T-shirts and twine —
a soup kettle carried through the corn — a little fire — sticks from the stick pile —
the fire too small to boil the berries bobbing in river water — and the shirts won’t
sink — they must be weighted down with rocks — after an hour the girl
who made mulberry cream pie puts out the fire with mulberry stew and stones
they untie the shirts — but there’s no purple sunburst — just a sloppy
lavender swirl — and four sighs — and later, after their mothers
wash the shirts, all that’s left is a feathery smudge — like a wing print
made of smoke — shadow of a shadow at noon — a girlhood, a ghost too soon
