Mother’s Backyard by Elisa Peterson

Mother’s backyard was groomed,
except for the fenceless perimeter
where wild blackberries loomed
seven feet tall.

Every year she would cut them back.
Every year they grew back, with a
vengeance, calling to mind science
fiction tales –  carnivorous plants
who devoured their humans, slowly.
Why, I wondered, didn’t she call in
the experts to kill them?

One day, in my twenties, I stopped
by unannounced, retrieved the key
from under the fake rock, entered
through the front door, and, calling
for her, wandered the house, room
by room.

Finally, stepping out onto the back
patio, I found her, naked, hanging
up the laundry. My serious, quiet,
withdrawn mother, who, for my
every fear, I held to blame.

Now, Pearl, the Goddess,
gloriously shining. She just liked
the feeling of air on her skin.
“Would you like to join me?”
she asked.

My mother had just invited me into
her secret club, offered to hold my
hand, lead me into a new dimension.
I stepped out of my clothes. “We’re
safe,” she said. “The blackberries
are standing guard.”