Rita Tiwari

Blueberries

I’m seduced not by their plumpness, nor
their sometimes-sour midnight skin,
but rather by how your tall frame bends
each morning at the low freezer drawer,
hoists the big bag, pours a clanking handful
into your bowl, then (beep-beep-beep,
vrrrrrrrr) heats them in the microwave
to grace your Scottish oatmeal.

It’s not their sweetness, no, it’s the routine—
how it creeps into our lives blindly
with its cool quietude, its fresh comb of honey—
that makes me want to grasp too tight.
I am, after all, my father’s daughter;
his gritted teeth, his flex-jawed smile,
they’re also mine. But I want us held fast
by something more than my fixed grip
and stronger than my small fingers;
something intangible, reliable, tender.

I’d like to draw a contract with the universe—
an inked karmic promise: You will always
have this. But no such thing exists. Just
the fruit, its purple juice, and that bowl I rinse
then place in the dishwasher.

Rita Tiwari is a poet and fiction writer. Her poems have appeared in Portland Review, CALYX, Whale Road Review, and others. Her writing is inspired by urban landscapes, film noir, and writers such as Natasha Trethewey, Marie Howe, Danusha Laméris, and Victoria Chang. She holds a Master of Arts in Writing from Portland State University and a Master of Fine Arts in Writing from Pacific University. She is a Kwame Dawes Mapmaker Scholar. When she is not writing, Rita enjoys exploring the Pacific coast and discovering hidden treasures in and around her home city of Portland, Oregon.