Katrina Kaye

She is selling local honey
out of the back of an 84 Dodge.
In tight worn jeans
and a crochet halter,
she wipes a sticky finger across her thigh.

I know her.
She drinks straight
from the comb.
She lets sugar sit on white teeth
savoring the rot.

She mesmerizes passer bys,
with a saccharine smile
and taut abdomen.
Trying to make an honest living
to accommodate an immoral code.

Honey,
I know you better.
I know what that caramel hair
looks like when it is unwashed
and stiff from too much sugar.
I know the sick syrup residue
the leaks down
the back of your throat.
The taste you can’t quite shake.

This remedy, homegrown and handmade,
healed burns and soothed wounds.
We candied it with
our own hands and tested it with
our own lips swelling
our immunity to foreign bodies.
We didn’t need anything more,
just this sweetness which stuck us together.

The flavor, the thick,
still reminds me of you.

She accidentally smiles at me,
lifts her hand to wave,
before catching herself,
looking away,
and returning to the hive.