Mulberries
The less ripe they are,
the older they seem
to me, hard and pale
like the chins of old
men who’ve suffered
being shaven
by their daughters
-in-law, their beards,
grown out in protest
against death, falling
apart onto their chests,
revealing the hard
pale chins that, again,
unripe mulberries have
always reminded me of,
so that, feeling
their smooth flesh
wonderingly after
she leaves, they vow
to go out tomorrow
to the mulberry tree,
bending branches
down with their canes,
and pick a bowlful
of ripe mulberries
for her for when
she comes back.