Some times people ask me why I don't write love poems. I tell them all my poems are love poems, but I know what they mean. So I show them ones like these two just published in Discretionary Love and they stop asking.

sweetness

before she began, she placed the glass jar between us—
filled with fresh, golden honey—and a sizable spoon.
homemade. an amateur apiarist, she kept a ready supply.

as she began, I remembered how my mother mixed
honey with lemon, a pinch of salt. a folk remedy
for sore throats, the beginnings of a cold.

when she was through, I asked why. she thought
I meant the amber on the table, not the gaslighting
she called brutal honesty. she said it was to help me

swallow my feelings.

an open letter to the one who should have got away

…yet, somehow—
as the scorpion thrashed her pincers
and drowned—the frog survived,
flopped ashore, croaked himself
back to life. a week, a month later,
along the same muddy shore,
another barb-tailed arachnid
implored him for safe passage
across the stream. a ride
atop his slick, perforated back.
it’s not that he doesn’t remember.
it’s just his nature. he never learns.