Rancid Honey by Alex Wasson

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

Would you like to see what has survived without you?

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.