I hate honey.
I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.
I don’t like the texture
or the taste
or the smell.
Everyone likes it.
She likes it.
But it’s awful – it’s sticky.
It sticks, it sticks, it sticks.
But she likes it
and I would bathe in it for her.
I would learn beekeeping
and make honey just for her.
I would spread it on her toast
and let her lick the spoon after.
I would make myself love honey
just to call her lover.
~ Daisy L
5:55 A.M.
“Look,” said the trees. “Over here,”
but outside the window, they’re suspiciously still.
“Listen,” said the birds. “To the song.”
but now it seems the tune
has come and gone.
Church bells ring “Ave Maria”-
a similar nostalgia
to the rapid sensations
I search to understand
but still don’t.
The date Saturday, 1/29,
the number 2051,
a forgotten twenty-dollar bill
in my old glasses case,
swimming with whales
in my night time delusions
and the following statement:
“Planes are always off course,
Constantly making corrections.”
I wonder where I’m being corrected to.
~ Pearl Bellomo