by Amanda Vernor

Adeleine pours a whiskey barrel’s
juice into her cup.

Plastic, a
small hole in the bottom,

it drains slowly,
and she sips, which is wasteful,

until bees greet the
underside.

The color of honey
draws them.

Or was it the scent
of a seemingly sweet nectar?

My nude body, I mention,
is not a temple but a portion

of this very earth.
She laughs, shaking her cup

of draining whiskey;
the bees buzz louder,

confused.
As if honey were the splattering sort.