Rancid Honey

The mug sits empty

the tea I made warms her

She sleeps

with her mouth open

A stale honey well sloshes

at the end of her throat

only eight minutes old,

the bitter twist of her breath

I revel in the heady hot on my cheek

vegetation before the wet

earth presses it deep, lovingly

into the kind of thing

archaeologists sift through the soil for

fermentation, almost sweet

Her mouth is a cave,

and up along the lengthy drop of her esophagus,

strange winds with no origin blow

stinking gloriously of black tea

telling of something ancient

teasing the climber that stands on her lip

leaning to look down

deep within as

the hollow sound

whistles

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Would you like to see what has survived without you?

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Alex Wasson is a sophomore theatre directing major with a love for writing, whether it be poetry, prose, or scripts. She is honored to be included with such talented writers, and she looks forward to engaging more with the Belmont literary community as she declares an English minor.

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