seeping through your fishing net,
silvered leaves, your portrait;
like blood-won gold and harvests.
oozing over my hurt,
this honey, drawn by your hands
from the great thrum of wings and poison,
kind to our
in a way no other spread
can sweeten our downfall.
around our wilting necks, Pablo,
you never filtered this yellow effluence
of your secret ocean.
I can taste Chilé
rivers and men
in its lush heaves.
I can touch
the provenant lilies,
over the black spindles,
the footsteps of bees
come to take
their wisp of embaument
Inspired by the works of Pablo Neruda, particularly his use of honey as a motif.