After Sylvia Plath The bushes are laden, draw my blood with their thorns. To find sweetness or at least some nourishment, Find sweetness before wasps get the drupes, Don leather gloves. Get ready for a struggle. Struggle to be delicate. Soften your clumsy touch On that honey-feast, fat with blue-red juices. The honey of it, dripping with blue-red juices. Plump and dumb on the banks of the brook. I cling to my footing on the slippery banks. Are the tenderest ones the hardest to hold?
