Out of the Blueberry

A limp fist reaches

through the part in the curtain.

It turns over and opens

revealing several blueberries.

One is crushed.

Thick, sticky, purple blood

stains the epidermal creases

drips into the lifeline

rubs out the heart-line

producing a fruity stigmata

blurring the distant past

obscuring future clues.

One of the berries begins to shake

to tremble, to quiver

a punctured break.

A beak pokes through

the thin blue skin.

A tiny eye blinks within.

It stares at me like a baby.

Okay. This is weird.

I just came in here to try on a bra for chrissakes.

I ask somebody to lend me a hand,

you know, get me another size,

and this is what I get? Go figure.

I don't know what to make

of this. But I'm supposed to know

everything, even though I don't.

I'm the one who's supposed to have

all the answers. But I don't have

an answer for this. So I say, What?

What do you want with me?

What do you want me to do?

The fluorescent light

in my dressing room

is buzzing. My feet

are cold on the tile floor.

Nothing. No response.

The eye just stares.

I turn around and face my reflection in the mirror.

A middle-aged girl in blue jeans

topless from the navel up

with nipples like blueberries

hands like fists

shivering from the secret

waiting for direction

waiting for an answer

waiting for a gut feeling

loud, clear, unmistakable

as certain as a price tag

as confident as a straight pin.

Answers are submarines rising

out of the blueberry.