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This year there are no berries,
only poison stems, like wrists
flung around the oaks.
Flocks of grackles still arrive,
milling like dark suitors on the grass.
Inside, my cat looks on.
Last week he prowled
and rubbed his paws along the poison buds:
holding him caused blisters
on my lips and arms.
Wherever he brushed
August wrote its name
in streaks of red.
Once in the bath
he cried and clawed. Scratches
crosshatched over wheals.
Later, a shot of cortisone
spreading in my hip,
I grabbed a sprayer,
aimed the venom of an herbicide into the trees.
I'm cautious now.
On button-down summer nights
shrunken leaves caress the oaks,
poison vines still shimmer.
The cat goes on a prowl.
I plump his blanket, knowing
he'll return, that the ivy
will creep along smooth bark,
unbinding luscious berries
beneath untruthful blooms
all across my lawn.
David Cazden is the poetry editor of Miller's Pond. His poetry has
appeared in various publications, including Stirring, Samsara,
Poet's Canvas, Rattle, Porcupine, and Byline Magazine. His photography is forthcoming in Main Street Rag and
Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review.
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