RASPBERRY JAM

by Dorothy Mack

    Paralyzed by stroke, my mother lies
    on raspberry sourballs she can't reach,
    stashed long ago when she hedged her diet,
    hiding sweets between the mattresses.
    Her eyes half-shuttered sideways,
    she can't see the peas on her plate.

    Jamming in June so her glowing red
    jars would reach us by Christmas,
    she fell flat on the kitchen floor, alone
    in her berry-stained apron. Her pickers
    had moved away, just as the berries
    deserted her hands and scattered.

    For her we’d crawl deep in thickets,
    thrust past scratches for the large liquid
    berries, come out purple-mouthed, bloody,
    grinning with overflowing baskets.
    Yet her thankful hugs were so thorny
    I felt she loved jam more than me.

    That winter we spread her ashes
    over the tangled raspberry patch,
    dusting the sharp red canes almost
    covered with snowdrifts. Afterwards
    in the dark pantry rows of red jars
    warmed my ash-covered hands.

    The new owners of the farm like lawn,
    smooth glade without a trace of bramble.
    Now on Christmas twenty years later,
    we open the last raspberry jam.