(Untitled)

There's glass in the honey now.
We could pick out shards together, piece by piece,
and never be sure it's gone. All the work of the bees
and the glass factory's seamless jar
have been swept together to the benefit of neither.

It's not your fault, or mine, or the fault of the bees;
we can blame gravity, our parents, the nature of kitchen floors.
You've got fingers in the honey and I've ruined one rag;
there's nowhere to go from here but pain in the sweetness,
cut lips and trying to fix this.

Here's the secret, love: there's no fixing what's smashed.
This is no teacup to glue together,
and responsibility's not on the table.
We have one question left: blood and honey, or neither?