Sieve

The blackberries are boiling down

to a dark, angry thicket in the pot.

I poured them through the muslin,

the white cloth turning the color

of a bad bruise on a thigh.

My thumbs are stained for a week.

A thread caught on a splinter

of the butcher block, pulling loose,

unraveling the weave while the juice

drips slow into the bowl,

thick and heavy as a secret.