HONEY

At the point where your body broke on the page, where was I—

shoveling burnt honey like a slighted wasp into my own human mouth,

I transform into some patient cat with the memory of you touching

the domed t.v. screen with Bart Simpson looming close. Your hands

speak in movements that stain. How sad it is

to be a pilled sheet, asking where was I when your body broke

with blood. You came running out of yourself like a mare

with sawed off hooves. Humiliated, you touch yourself to inspect injury.

Your cat sleeps on a warm and patient screen, expecting transformation, you

expecting my thighs to touch naturally like some small and insurmountable

gift. I'd like to think that I pour into myself with ease. I can't decide between

freshness and virtue as your body breaks on the page

like some salted mixture of polish and paint. I rushed down the front door

only to find that there was no room for both you, and me

in memory— touching like an expectant stain steady with transformation,

and I wait to hurt.

At a certain point your body broke on the page as I asked,

where was I