Poem: Something Sweet

I've spent the last three weeks trying to write something about books, non-fiction books specifically, but I've been having trouble putting the words I really want to say down. It took a little while to realize that this is my blog and I can post or not post whatever I want. The book post will come, but I want to get it right. Until then, here is a poem I wrote last Spring about missing the wildness that lived inside me when I was a child.

Something Sweet

I used to press

honeysuckles to my

lips. Bite

then suck

one after the


They were so

soft and


Now I press

my mouth to

shoulders, lips,

backs, heads,


Not all are


Not all are


I need something

to keep my mouth

busy so I don’t

speak too

much, too


I talk

when I’m

nervous. I don’t

want to tell my

secrets too


I used to dig my

hands into the

dirt searching for

treasure, staining my



I unearthed cold

polished stones,

bleached white

bones, abandoned

ant homes.

Now I caress

cheeks, hold tightly to

hands, tear desperately

at bed sheets,

clothing, anything

that will keep me


But I can’t seem to hold

on anymore. I lost the

dirt under my

nails, threw away

my treasure, forgot

what flowers

taste like.

I want to build a garden

of honeysuckles,

dig into

the earth to

find its

history, stop

grasping at manmade

material and sink

my toes in the ground

that made me.


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