Blueberry - Diane Lockward 
 
Deep-blue hue of the body, silvery bloom 
on its skin. Undersized runt of a fruit, 
like something that failed to thrive, dented top 
a fontanel. Lopsided globe. A temperate zone. 
Tiny paradox, tart and sweet, homely 
but elegant afloat in sugar and cream, 
baked in a pie, a cobbler, a muffin. 
 
The power of blue. Number one antioxidant fruit, 
bantam-weight champ in the fight against 
urinary tract infections, best supporting actor 
in a fruit salad. No peeling, coring or cutting. 
Lay them out on a counter, strands of blue pearls. 
Pop one at a time, like M&M's, into your mouth. 
Be a glutton and stuff in a handful, your tongue, 
lips, chin dyed blue, as if feasting on indigo. 
Fruit of the state of New Jersey. 
Favorite fruit of my mother. 
 
Sundays she scooped them into pancake batter, 
poured circles onto the hot greased griddle, sizzled 
them gold and blue, doused with maple syrup. 
 
This is what I want to remember: my mother 
and me, our quilted robes, hair in curlers, 
that kitchen, that table, 
plates stacked with pancakes, blueberries sparkling 
like gemstones, blue stars in a gold sky, 
the universe in reverse, 
the two of us eating blueberry pancakes.

WRITING PROMPT...

1.  Write on the top of the page... I want to remember.  Try a 10 minute fast write.  What does it want to be?  A poem?  A short story?  A journal reflection?  Something else entirely?

2.  As always, follow your muse!