by Jennifer Mills Kerr
Here, take these berries on your tongue,
taste their tang as a sentinel of grief,
and with the sun’s red glare, come into
my meadow to sip the morning air. See
my mother, the crushed, crimson flower
I handled, relenting to her hot temper,
her weeping. It was never enough. And
though she is dead, my palms still bear
a bright burn of tenderness. I want
to believe everything is a gift, to believe
it is enough to put this sweet and bitter
offering here, to be tasted, to be trusted,
even when this bounty has not filled me.
Jennifer Mills Kerr’s poetry has been recently published in The Inflectionist Review, MORIA, & SWWIM. She hosts art-inspired writing circles online and curates poems on the Poetry-Inspired Substack (@JenniferMillsKerr). Read more of poetry at https://jennifermillskerr.carrd.co
January House Literary Journal 
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