Kinds of Honey

My gum below the cavity throbs,

my eye has an odd red spot

and the burn on my back

from one careless bump

against the fireplace’s glass

has blistered, bled, and peeled.

.

What is more difficult to tolerate?

These sores, or the forever days

of empty activity,

the repetition of failure

a persistent moth of the mind?

I swat at it and miss. It crowds

the light I am so close to putting out.

.

The surface becomes trivial –

it hardly matters as it mends with

time, ointment, oil. A trip to the doctor.

An apple. Honey and oats. Ice. Heat. Rest.

.

But the soul’s salve must be hope.

.

Even lying, exhausted, on the cracked

floor of try, try again –

it is still possible to imagine

an old barn and stacks of hay

and a black-haired collie trotting

near my heels, along a broken fence.

There might still be daisies in ditches,

a wind vane’s slow turn, and calves

galavanting through grasses to find us

to push close and toss their heads,

to stick their noses in buckets of fresh milk.

.

Maybe a wedding quilt. A kitchen table.

And a hand, held out, solid and warm and kind.