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Sour Honey & Sweet Vinegar
After Malachi Black
But for the softening cry, cracked blue tile, the opening
Of which reveals torn hip, loose ribs, she is naught but a lapse
Into guilt, born of women who know the true emptiness of red. Awareness
Of her seeps into everything, she is the stain on your lover’s spine,
Of the wax dripping from a singular flickering candle, his groin
I know to be the same viscosity. The blood tides instead to his mind
The same way whispers scratch words:
one love is far worse than the scars of two:
The bee holds more pollen than its honey ever will. Who
I believed to know at dusk has evaporated by dawn. Now each cockcrow's daylight
Sprains the blue fog which shrouds my head. I know
That your hearth burns to an impregnable degree
And I know that bellow will blister me, there must be
Some morphine soaked sheets, some hot shower floor to keep
Away that cracked tile, that color red, that flickering candle, the honey, the pollen & me.
Home
About The Kiln Project
Contact Us
Author Interviews
David Haynes
Phong Nguyen
Brenda Hillman
Zadie Smith
Arundhati Roy
The Kiln Project
Table of Contents
Via
Submissions
Archive