Blueberries

Each day they teach me the subtle difference
between indigo and violet. What was the name
of that Crayola, color of plums? It wasn’t called plum.
Color is deceptive because you think
a berry might be ready, when it’s not. There was a blue
Crayola called midnight that I never liked.
Midnight should be black, full of ghosts.
Then, there was that stupid color called Flesh,
as if all people were white. Maybe, by now, it’s dead.
Some of the blueberries are turning to mush on the bush.
Must be old age. Or climate change. I’m also turning to mush
despite the vitamins, the fiber diet. And I’ve been wondering
about the deepening tint of my veins on a scale of blueberry
though I’d prefer to sidestep the question. It’s a short season.
I cut the remaining flowers, pull coreopsis, lament over irises
taking over the plot, impossible to yank out, just like politicians.
In New York, I heard, the progressive guy
beat the sex offender governor, who’d resigned in disgrace
until, suddenly, it was okay to be a sex offender.
Not transgender. But sex offender, no problem.
My mother was upset, but figured she wasn’t going to live
much longer. Not that there’s anything wrong with her
at 90-something. Blue veins—yes, though far from turning
to mush. After picking, it got hotter, so I rooted indoors
until I got restless and tried to walk along the river
but there were too many bugs—extra hungry
because I was the only idiot out in the heat.
It’s supposed to break tonight, but no storms yet.
I tried again to call my friend with Parkinson’s,
and again, there was no answer. No voicemail, either.
So, I emailed his wife, who said he’s been getting confused
and hyperventilating. Aren’t we all?
I went back into the heat, pulled four stalks
of asparagus, some tot soi and lettuce.
Amazing it hasn’t bolted. Amazing I haven’t bolted.