Spring 1984 • Vol. VI No. 2 A Gathering of Poems |

Notice

I sell honey Of the grayest hue. My garden's vintageBarbed wire, And my bees wear splints On their cindery rounds. When they buzz, It's like that bonesaw At the wholesale butcher's, When they go gathering In their rubber masks, Salvation Army suits, Teeth blackened with rot Against the anthracite Petal and calyx. I'm selling it In the same mason jar From which I sip this hooch. You give it to a coughing child With tea—and to his mother, The sickly one, who's been in labor These thirty some years. Her bloody babe's already half-out, Twisting its mouth. I think it's about to plead For a spoonful of my honey Of the grayest hue.

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Mummy’s Curse

By Charles Simic

I sell honey Of the grayest hue. My garden's vintageBarbed wire, And my bees wear splints On their cindery rounds. When they buzz, It's like that bonesaw At the wholesale […]

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I sell honey Of the grayest hue. My garden's vintageBarbed wire, And my bees wear splints On their cindery rounds. When they buzz, It's like that bonesaw At the wholesale […]

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