You caught me honey-bee
I always thought I was a wasp
With a grin sting, turning green
In the porch light, no, though.
I turned out to be a moth with
Soft wings, coming off on your fingertips
I’m grateful for the bees, he says:
You will hive me forever. On those movies
It was only the words that turned me: each
One an aphotic kelp forest, swirling otters
Coming up and over the sweating sun.
Antediluvian moments, he used to call them,
The seven deluges you carved out in old
Display cases, native beads, Asian threads.
I realized the honey was mine all along.
I swear on summer: the long dirt power line trails,
Old grass, dehydrated trees. ON being young:
It was completely sensory, only a story stuck
To the concrete:
Summer is just a word and honey
Is only a permanent poem, something
We swear on, though.
About the Author: Sarah Felder
My name is Sarah Felder, I am from Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts. I am finishing up my degree here at APU this spring. I am inspired by nature, nostalgia, and the passing of time. I love contemporary poetry, but read all genres from all times and places. Some of my favorite poets include, Elizabeth Bishop, Ezra Pound, Stephen Dobyns, and Sharon Olds.