Deb Kilgore
HONEYYou drip down my spoon -
a string of you connected to
the countertop. what it's like to
wipe you up: you cling to my hand,
unwanted lover. I don't even like you,
honey, but sugar's rare these saccharine
days. my lips wet with glue, I lick too late;
you are stuck in clumps to hairs
I didn't know were there.
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