Grim Honey
       

I try to break up, be done already,
but memories twist inside me,
mismanaged, yanking hard.

Break an irreverent verb:
To hold with slivered palms.
They may have died,

bodies disgorging potent juices,
their last days bruises
on the permanent record,

but they're still here,
poisonous, delicious
sugar cubes of story,

moths to the lemon,
slippery wax on the floor
I always walk on.

I may hate them,
but I love a few like a hammer,
something I can smash

regularly, sorrow
a nail, ache a door
desperate to be demolished,

melancholy a hopeless meteor
I miss, image blurry
in the telescope.

Once my dead sister asked,
"Did Halley's comet ever land?"
We laughed so hard

we peed ourselves.
She's the comet flinging
toward us, steady

as a ring, around and around.
She's the grim honey
from last year's harvest,

a sweet, ambered fossil,
slicing my tongue
with each sharp lick.

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Copyright © 2022 Jessica Barksdale All rights reserved
from Grim Honey
Sheila-Na-Gig Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission