Mattituck, Long Island

Kathleen Connolly

In late August, we picked blackberries and sucked sweet tart off
our fingers. It was safer to label myself lovesick than insane.
His tenderness, how he would hum along to the car radio, how his
nose would scrunch up around lavender; I remember so much. I
must have been manic to him, a wild girl with knots in her hair and
lips stained purple yelling Look at me, Pay attention to me, I will
dissolve into nothing if you stop loving me.