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Stella Brice God is Honey |
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I see my great-grandmother
in her village where
Winter
is a fang.
I see her turn to me on the
November road.
At 19, she gives me a cold,
wild grin.
She gives me a smile that is
not smoke. She clutches
birds in
her fists. Black birds she
has killed in the dessicated
forest. They are hanging
upside down--blood
flowing to the skull
which she eats, alone
with her big mouth.
She nails the dark wings
over the door in a flying
pattern. She says God's
Angels
Don't come here--you are
too high. I suck my
honey from a dry tree where
it
Does me like an ocean.
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