Thinking about the photo on my wall of my grandparents

standing in their backyard on Rundlett Street,

my grandmother wearing me on her arm like a sling,

I remember reaching under the pantyhose-looking

blueberry netting in their backyard,

and picking the biggest berries I could find,

some the size of a rubber bouncy ball,

others no bigger than a marble.

Maybe I always felt so guilty for plucking them,

even after gaining permission from my grandmother,

who explained they were covered with that weird material

in order to keep the birds out,

because she had no idea, I could have been a poor

and starving thief stealing from the food pantry he depends on,

the way I looked around for her before

reaching under that brown stretchy nylon stuff

I’d seen on her long, heron-like legs,

and gorging myself on the plump purple and blue balls

I felt there, until I fell to the grass, my legs up and spread,

holding my belly and moaning like a woman about to give birth.

What can I say, I guess more than I needed to be good, I needed to be full.