Blackberries, Brambles Akhmatova wrote, “O look!—that fresh dark elderberry branch is like a letter from Marina…” And she was right, branches criss- cross, words sharpen. We lop them down, fit them into envelopes. But I forget: you don’t do letters: Too much tangled in thickets and desperation. Did I say envelopes? I meant elevators. See, I’ve snagged favourite sweaters in high rises, snarled hair in hedges, given up skin scrapings for blackberries, tongueburst, the sweet stain, explosion under light canine pressure. Don’t you just wish you were a dog sometimes? No panic. Romping through brambles. Even in delirium, near death, Akhmatova remembered. Her bitter friend had been dead a long time. Love. Don’t think I’m thinking about you. Anything but you. Eel The lake is still, after the flash rain. A water spider crosses from shore to dock propelled by snapping legs fine as a strand of hair. I lie on my stomach on rough cedar, watch through one of the gaps a green wedge of this strange world. The sun wraps me in a warm skin, dries the damp behind my knees and in the small of my back, brushes the hair on my neck. Heat passes through me. I am cooled in stripes by the fresh water under me. A young eel writhes into the green, spirals between minnows like a lost necklace falling through time into obscuring grass. I miss you. My fingers slip into the crack beside my eyes.