honey is a verb

by Isobel O’Hare

she seeped into the earth

reborn as iris

bloomed places within her that his violence

could not reach

sucked into her own beautiful

flimsy piece of life

she vowed never to wish for anyone’s departure

only that they be sucked

into their own beautiful

flimsy piece of life

reborn as poppy, a sleepy sort of power

the kind that lulls

a kind of tincture, a balm, a honey

made from sleepy flowers

maybe the problem is too much poppy

not enough water

she won’t put cut flowers in water

they are dead already, she says

why prolong the inevitable

she would rather be a death doula

than a Dr. Frankenstein

cutting the head off a chicken

to pump blood into its neck

it’s not pretty

hang it to dry, use dead things

for decoration

they tell me I killed a child once

it does not linger in a vase

of stagnant water in my mind

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