by Ashley Taylor
Stuck and dripping at the back of your throat,
this juniper seed syrup pine cone pit
rolls your words on the coil of my ear;
and like tucking curls behind my temple,
I know you don’t mean it. So again,
hold out your tongue for honeycomb and gin
because I keep searching for art in you.
A compass for bewilderment in hues
of amber on gold on rose; I forget
to check wonder at the door like a debt.
Caught in the wild lilac from the yard,
I keep finding bees in the mason jars.
With wings like sinew, I pull them from sap.
Stringing arcs of honey cling, and reach back.