ambrosia | poem

I want to stick my fingers into the thick, sweet sap of honey.

Yearning, I press past the colony into the core of the comb.

The delicate structure crumbles where I’ve punctured it.

I disregard the demolition, I lick the nectar from my fingers and savor its sapidity.

The comb hangs broken from its branch.

Chaos and emptiness, simultaneous.

I turned on my heel and walked away on cool grass, coated with fresh dew.

You are molten honey,

The hot coal in my stomach and behind my eyeballs.






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