saccharine

that was the summer my aunt turned to theft,

stealing from bees at the end of the street,

leaving them buzzing and doubtless bereft,

her hands full of a sweet, syrupy treat

the honeycomb snapped, molten gold poured down,

like sunshine, cascading into a bowl,

we spooned it into tea, to watch it drown,

and slathered every naked bun and roll

I built castles of amber in the sky,

that shone jewel-bright, even caught in starlight,

I wished they were real, and not a child’s lie,

this vision of this violent delight

we gorged ourselves witless on stolen treasure,

but pillaging from gods can never bring true pleasure.