Elsewhere, a prayer on the back of a Valentines tin
with a banged-up lid that could never close
’til a tack hammer thwack of her thumb and the rim
Pain as a sacrifice to the things that hold us together.
I heard that if you stay still enough, a vine of honeysuckle will grow right through you
I tell her my sources are never reliable
She says she remembers that he likes the smell of vanilla,
and maybe it will help the bees.