I know the volume of a teaspoon in the mouth,
scrape of sugar against the tongue. It sinks
into the body as if it were made from it, as if it could
transubstantiate: flesh made sticky as syrup, crystals
dusting the skin like sand, tangling eyelashes.
The body a grainy column, melting in the rain.
I roll through the apple of my lit apartment
like a seed, all bitterness and potential, a little bit
of poison at the core. Days pass in spoonfuls
denied, in the bed’s single dent. All through
the long winter, the body hoards its sweetness,
stops sap at the root, immures itself in cloisters
of wax and abnegation, walls dripping with honey.