Dear Honeycomb Girl,
You live in this world of hexagonal blisters,
Each brimming with honey, with tiny little fetuses that curl
In their little cells, developing, waiting, wanting to be born.
You crawl over each little moment and consume each emotion,
Each memory, each sensory perception and you grind
And grind and grind them between the sharply-dulled edges of your
Mortar and pestle.
Take out the fine powder. Examine the particles. Is it soft enough yet?
Have you processed each experience to the most nitty-gritty?
You crawl over each little polygon.
Tuck in the dream, the nightmare, the landscape of the past into each little cell.
Seal them with the sadness of your tears.
Eventually, the salt will make the moisture recede, calcify the edges,
Give everything a glaucoma-opacity.
Oh, my honeycomb girl, I keep on lifting up the
Corrugated ribs of your life and scraping at the wax-seals
You have carefully placed over each fermenting womb,
Spill out the honey whether it is ready or not,
And search within the constellation of bubbles and fragmented
Hexagons for a future.
For me? Because I am selfish that way.
But, my beloved, darling honeycomb girl,
I promise that I have put away my knife and the centrifuge
Which spins and spins and spins, guaranteed to extract the impurities
And leave behind only the dark streams of purest sweetness.
I don’t mean to meddle with perfection,
To indulge myself with speculation about your world.
Even my best intentions were never meant to make you erupt with tears
Or bad memories.
Instead, I will put away the smoker
And watch you, instead, fly among the flowers.