Made from fruit, helped to grow from me, Honey.
Darling, the world needs your poverty.
It’s how college kids can fund their degrees for jobs they cannot land, short jobs keep families afloat when nothing is consistent.
We need your bones to harvest, like the migrants have learned to harvest the food we view most morale.
Privileged enough to tell you of your imperfections even when I’m not there.
Magazine, movie, it’ll all smooth over like the honey I refuse to digest.
And when I say I’ll die loudly as a Jew and quietly as a cripple, your unused honey will fill up the floorboards as I gasp for air-and you; in surprise.