So many times this summer I would reach my fingers to the branch, bursting with hard berries, and you would tell me never to eat what I could not label (all foragers must know the name of that which fills us); I must find each fruit indexed as edible, however tempting, the bright pigment, smiling like a trickster. Perhaps it all boiled down to something unnamed, we could never find the Latin word for it— the way you love me with so much caution
Skye Shirley graduated from Boston College in 2010 with a major in English and Creative Writing, and currently teaches Latin at an all-girls school. Her poetry has been published in multiple journals, including Sow’s Ear, Susquehanna Review, Deep South Magazine, Best Undergraduate Writing of 2009, Pure Francis, and Post Road.
She craves the vanilla-like smell of old books, and hungers for pumpkin bread, cider, cranberries, or anything else that tastes like October.
Back to Issue 4: Hungry Things