Please indulge this.
Because the nettles only sting
when alive. Because
dead things are so easily
severed by a blade of grass.
Honeybees would rather die
than eat the last of honey.
I try to find you amongst
the ruined combs—the spring
day that can’t help but burst
from carefully wrapped gifts.
There is no last of the honey,
only more to unwrap. Only
bodies underfoot to preserve
a kiss in wax—winter gone—
tongues cut apart by grass
where royal dandelions
hoard the sugar of the field.
But where is the lion’s mouth?
Where is the hero who lays
down for my pleasure?
