Honey

Stones came at her like bees to candy
And sweet redheaded harlot that she was
She screamed out, I never, I never.

Anne Sexton

The redhead thinks about losing
what she never had: his hands, those

curious bears, thinks of the invisible
inverse, a sweet universe, where
he could love her and bless desire.

He never—
She craves the ravaged plane of his chest, his skin,
its pores and wrinkles, the bees of its shivering,

its strange, familiar smells. The redhead runs
counter to public opinion, turns
for comfort to the desert, to honey, to carved stone,

moves away from the village to escape—
over her shoulder, the first rock. She picks it up—

I never. We never. Never....