About the work

The blackberry jam didn’t come from a jar this morning. It was picked yesterday, at the very edge of the woods, where the footpath opens onto the neighbour’s field. A stray bramble, forgotten in the annual trim, heavy with ripe fruit. He ate them straight from the thorny vine, handful after sticky handful, until his face was purple and his shorts stained. He was warned not to eat too many, that they would give him a tummy ache. He ignored the warning. Now, the proof is not only on his cheek, but also somewhere in the laundromat, tracking a path of sticky seeds onto the freshly folded whites. What his mother doesn't know is that he ate them out of spite.