5 July 2009
Bernice Imogene Pope
Now and again I get back
a part of myself. A cobbler brings me
face to face with my grandmother
and the dewberry bushes that grew
at the back fence in Victoria, south Texas
when I was younger than my little ones.
She picked them thinking of me--
no one loved those berries quite as much as I--
and she pummeled them through
a v-shaped colander so only the sweet
juice was covered by a rich cobbler crust.
The pan is two feet across,
the crust golden, the berries
sweeter than they’ve ever been since
in my memory.