WEBVTT

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So for the young
writers here, that's

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a poem about fucking an insect--

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[LAUGHTER]

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Which is the worthy
subject of poems.

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And ecological to boot.

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[LAUGHTER]

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This is called "To
the Mulberry Tree".

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Are mulberries around
here, do they grow?

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OK, yeah.

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Where I'm from up
in Pennsylvania,

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that's one of our fruit,
and they're everywhere,

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and they're really prolific.

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I'm going to tell you
before I start this one too,

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I made the mistake
of reading this poem

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to a group of little kids.

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[LAUGHTER]

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"To the Mulberry Tree".

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"Everyone knows it's good
luck, if inconvenient,

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when a bird shits on you.

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But even more so good luck
if the bird shits on you

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when you're plucking gold
currant tomatoes sweet enough

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to make your bare
feet lift just so

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off the ground and the beetles
beneath scurry and giggle.

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And as I move to
gobble one, mouth agape

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and swooped in a grin at
once, this shit slurries half

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in and half on my sun-warmed
chin, which forgive me,

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jiggles me from my reverie,
for I am only human.

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Swiping the slurp of
turd from my mouth

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to see it is mostly purple,
the goop seedy and gelatinous.

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And when I see the
bird pitching its swill

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from the branch above, I know
that, yes, this shit is mostly

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berry from that most
prolific of trees, which

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some numbskulls call a weed
because it's so prolific

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and not, they say,
particularly useful.

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These same, some call insipid,
the mulberry's flavor,

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which I think means
tasteless or bland.

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But given, I detect, swirled
in the shit, the sweet

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of the thing, it simply
doesn't fit the bill

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but rather most likely describes
the sex life of the describer.

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But why should I get personal,
defending the trees' honor?

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Mostly, I'm happy the
birds feast on the top

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most branches of these tall
trees and leave be for the time

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being my blueberries and
soon blackberries and grapes

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and these little tomatoes.

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Though to be sure, it is a
certain glee as spring gasps

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into summer and
the lowest branches

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shimmer with their simple
booty, which I must jump for

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and sometimes high, which I
will not probably always be

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able to do, for jumping and
grabbing at once like this,

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a soft thing is hard.

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Be gentle, she said,
emerging from the dugout

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beneath the mulberry tree,
where the big kids gathered.

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And we mostly rode our
bikes by fast so as

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not to be snatched to the
ground and pummeled or worse,

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for they were teenagers.

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But I knew this
early July morning

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they would be
nowhere to be found.

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And the tree would be
burdened with a crop begging

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to be loosed on my ice cream.

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She wiped her eyes and
yawned and put on glasses.

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And there was in her hair,
a little sprig of grass.

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And she was barefoot,
laughing and filling

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with me slowly my bucket,
eating a few when it was full,

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giggling at the small burst
of juice one made on her chin.

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And behind her,
beneath the tree,

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there was a filthy blanket and a
pack of cigarettes and tin foil

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wrappers crumpled and shimmering
and the frayed remnants

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of a rope.

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And seeing me seeing
into the terrible future,

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she put softly one hand on my
chin and the other in my hair,

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turning my head away from
what wreckage waited in there.

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And back into the
leaves, which too, I

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will do to you so that none
of us will ever die terribly,

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but stay always like
this, lips and fingers

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blushed purple, the faint
sugar ghosting our mouths,

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beneath the tree
inside me, which is now

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the same tree inside you.

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All of us snugged in the
canopy on our tippy-toes,

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gathering fruit for good."

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