Heather Green
M o u t h i n g t h e F a b l e o f H o n e y
The particulars shuddered indecently in my throat,
then rose as I mouthed the fable of honey on your bee-sting lips:
Honeybees landed in flowers
and flowers, dustily lusted with pollen: flowers bended.
Later,
honey.
It is well-lit, the telling mouth is worn, chafing
to chafe more, moving honeybound in a story way.
In a rolling sundried place, the girl in the white gown messied her maw with off-limits honey,
haloed with bees and unafraid.
She did consider the boy who kept birds lakeside.
It seems she waited, powerfully craved honey, swallowed all her words.
The next part splits my lip,
The white gown with bee black dots and honey smears gave the girl away.
She was locked in her room for the rest of the day, and, bees in her hair, she slept in
confusion,
ignoring the bowlful of solvent milk - dreamed molasses, dreamed sticky hands.
I tell you the story too often – you don't listen on your lips,
wanting thigh story or hips – still hear this:
No bird or boy arrived. Perhaps that's worth repeating: no one came,
but her mind wandered away, honeycombs wrapped in a pillowcase.
Lips spun in full sun, she wandered out,
trailed by bees and following bees, toward a mouth washed in water and sound.
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