by Jeff Oaks

As a metaphor for art, which also makes bees a metaphor for us I suppose, honey is everything about art I don’t like: expensive, viscous, over-sweet. I don’t so much buy it to use as to display it in the kitchen, near the tea kettle, where it warms the corner like a miniature sun or a rhyming dictionary. In the middle of the night, I sometimes sneak downstairs, unscrew the cap, slip a spoon out of the drawer, and put a spoonful of that impossible product of a hundred lives, a thousand flowers, a million pounds of light and heat and rainfall quietly into my mouth and swallow.