This is a short poem based on a kind of reverent greed. The poem is called Honeycomb.


It is too beautiful to eat.
Knife crumbles it from gold to dark.
Our keenest edge cannot stay sharp
while in our walls, which seemed so strong,
damp murmurs with the evening sleet.
I wonder if I live too long

but then I taste the honeycomb,
its waxen white upon my teeth,
its liquid sun which hides beneath.
Small deities, of wind or moon,
behold me.  In my shabby room
I am a god.  I lick the spoon.


unpublished poem, © Alison Brackenbury 2013, used by permission of the author .

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