Tiny Bust, Jordan Sommer

last night the clock struck three, a lonely bird chirped,

and I walked into the kitchen on padded feet.

slid onto the floor with the jar and a spoon from the sink.

I live off of your rations for sweetness here

and the jar has never been mine to take.

but part of you knew that if you fed me honey

I would spill like milk into your arms.

the cool linoleum calls, and the rest of your house is asleep.

weeks of episodes of clandestine honey-eating

and still we have not been caught with sticky fingers.

but left alone I licked it clean

rambling and mead-drunk in my own head, by my own hand.

there are other people in your house who use this jar

and who am I to empty it

when it is clearly marked with someone else’s name?

the strange room I occupy here, landlord, is simply mine to rent.

collapsed on the floor, silent and raving

I wonder if you will stir and creak down the stairs.

I wonder if it would please you to see me this way.

stung, foolish to forget that honey comes from bees.

apis mellifera, sucking dry the red clover

in a valley up north where it’s green.

it is selfish to empty this jar.

to hope that the way I think of you is the way you think of me.