That summer my hair went yellow
and my back dark brown.
I was twelve, picking raspberries
from seven to one every day,
in a pink bikini. I learned
to tease out the big ripe ones,
the ones that hung hidden and pouting,
just above the wet soil.
All summer, I was gripped
by two-fold greed,
picking as fast as I could,
but unable to resist.
In the office, when I claimed the cash,
my arms were scratched,
my mouth one shameless stain.
If you have any comments on this poem, Annette Volfing
would be pleased to hear from you.