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Sticky
     for Robert Wrigley
by Lana Hechtman Ayers

She wants her eyes
to realize the names
of all the fallen trees–
 
not their names only
but their brithdates
& weights. She strives

to understand all
the planned and
unplanned waning

of the light. She courts
the moon, bright cohort
and conspirator

courts the sea, the sea
that bellies up news
of a coming world

she will not live
to see. She weeps.
She keeps her regard

open & unhard, reaches
for the bleached sweetpea-
blooms, for round browning
petals of rugosa elegans.
Her hands come away
stained and sticky

as if in communion
with straining bees
so that what comes

of her quick, her one
consumable, incon-
solable life is honey.

 

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