Picking blackberries in my garden.

I seems almost sacrilegious
not to pick them.

Luscious, succulent, each dark
cluster is surrounded by thorns

as if they were in
a torment of crucifixion.

Their annunciation
is good news for my palate

and so I continue
with these biblical images

desiring to savour the miracle
of their virgin birth,

partake of their eucharist  -
my first, not last supper of summer

anoint myself with their juices
be baptized, and if I prick

myself and bleed continuously
absorb their flavour as a benediction

I know absolutely there
will be no resurrection.    

John Christopher Johnson's  poems have appeared in The North, Other Poetry ...