the golden straw
sealed on both ends
holds what i've been
craving
the product of someone
else's labour,
carefully poured within
a clear, plastic tube
sweet, thick relief
against my tongue
washes away my
negativity
i have no way to
thank the provider
and no desire to, either
for in this moment
i allow myself to be selfish
lick away at the stickiness
of my lips
time comes to a standstill
and the spring sun kisses
my skin sweetly
once a year i allow
myself this pleasure
parked car looking on
to the extending horizon
and the glittering of the ocean
that feels so far away
but isn't
the smell of strawberries is powerfully invasive
and yet i take a deep breath
and pretend i can taste them
oxnard is like this—
salve to a burn,
analgesia for the soul—
and the honey on my tongue
is its warm welcome and
humble goodbye
