A creative response to Ananasakäämä by Brad Phillips
There was a type of berry, orange, we used to throw at each other after school. Big handfuls, clumps of unknown berries that stained our shirts. When our parents got home the streets were stained with their juice. Years later, way out west, I saw hats in museums, the enormous, gravity-defiant headdresses of people long wiped out. I saw how the games we played then weren’t games. Or they were games we played, unaware of the real rules. I don’t pick berries anymore.