sumac lemonade
we are red-handed murderers
emerging from the scrub stand
fingers glazed—tart and sticky—
stained purple, tongues
still biting with the staghorn's
final kick. we scrabble the pack
for more bags
for more sour drupes
for more sumac lemonade
the sun pours delicious heat
like syrup on the clearing
you smell the bitter edge
of seared bluegrass seething
one more bloody foray
one more cut of sharp berries
one more bag of gory drupes
fingers bruised with residue
sumac stinging our quicks
sunlight sweet and delicious
© Rob Thomas