Wednesday, July 9, 2008

raw honey

in folds of my skin

my fingers explore
the soft innards of the comb

i taste you

i walk through a hall
made of beeswax, a smell
that will last for decades

now i hurt all the way to my
finger
tips


the color of the pollen
in a white room
bright piles of
sunflower, dandelion, milkweed,

your face in my mind

and the st-ick sti-ck s-t-i-cky
stays
until hot water rinses it away

or it turns (in the cold) to a

heavy sugar


inspired by a Wolfgang Laib art exhibit

3 comments:

Maya said...

Very interesting poem.. has a good feel to it i think..
but it can be worked on. I'd suggest being clearer and speaking more from the heart than simply relying on what we know "sounds good"- a problem I always have! :)

Maya said...

So much better Holly! I really liked it this time!! Just question the line "I hurt..fingertips", though it sounds wonderful, it seems slightly superfluous to me... just my opinion...

I have added your blog to my blogroll :)

Cynthia said...

like someone walking through a dream, desires held in little
pockets that stick to her needs,
and it hurts, the manifestation/s,
her life, a white room, her life,
a blank slate, but if she waits to long, her
desires turn cold and heavy.
Needless to say I really enjoyed
reasding this poem.