sickly sweet and sticky
honey
stains the checkered cloth,
a rusty blob
shaped like the birthmark
on your ribs,
except this one stays on my fingers
long after I touched it,
washed it,
licked it off,
and then it tastes like
nothing
and the saccharine surprise
exists only in memory

that sunny Sunday
when everything is yellow
and my knees are a little red and burnt
and ants colored like fire
form a trail
and the birthmark is
miles away
and I had to make do
with the honey