Bleeding Honey

                For Heba in Gaza

I’m treading through a rising wave
             of oily peaches; the stench 
grips some primordial lever 
            labeled too far gone. Inside lay 
three pies latticed 
            with cardamom, ginger, 
my last summer evening.
            I’m drenched in overabundance.
I offer small spells to those
            in reach while so many 
rake the soil with a rubbled 
            and hateful tongue;
but the land, it gives and gives
            and gives, bleeds honey, 
sutures horn and hoof 
            with threads of grass 
and grape vine. Scorched 
            in the fight for more she still 
yearns to sing. I wish I could 
            portal the sweet little suns 
across scarred earth but my pen 
            will not open such a gate. 
The peaches plummet and gasp 
            like years.


Jessica Aure Pratt
@jessaure.poetry