Beauty

I used to pick blackberries in my grandmother’s backyard
The clouds were thin as cobwebs in the summer sky
And the grass was short and crunched under my small feet
When I got too greedy the thorns stuck me like a needle
And I’d lick the red off the tip of my finger
I couldn’t tell if it was blood or berry juice
My grandmother gave me chocolate and a Band-Aid
And her singsong, southern voice went down sweet as sugar
As she told me a beautiful thing is never perfect
But I did not understand so she said the berries only bite the girls they like.