I Broke the Honey Jar

I broke the honey jar today and it all came rushing out.

I broke the honey jar into neat pieces and

the silky cascade ran through my fingers,

down my shin, and coated the oak floor.

No bread and honey today. Just

sour stale rye like a mother’s lesson

you must accept and swallow dry.

If I lived in the city,

I could find an entire collection of honey,

waiting for me, labeled alphabetically

beneath a cool fluorescent sky.

Instead, I am here. And I’m content,

but the bees are gone and now I broke the honey jar.

As I gathered the slick glass shards,

I cut a bright rainbow into my palm.

It didn’t matter.

I sank to the ground,

immersed my hands in the precious gold spill,

and lifted them up to my mouth.


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