A Correspondence between the Sore Throat and the Honey Fingertip

To My Fingertip

After you left, by accident I broke two out of the three bowls you left for me. Here’s what happened - I was walking in the barn with my eyes closed, to see if I could retrace your steps without looking. It didn't work so well - I ended up with two shoes full of honey and kicked over the last bowl! So much for my aversion to sticky surfaces! I will sleep with your bowl under my pillow - it fits under my skull perfectly.

This is funny - one time when I was little my hair was in a ponytail. Someone walked up to my mother and told her I had the most beautiful skull!!!

In the kitchen I told them I smashed all the morning bowls. Sneaky - but I need some secrets in this small dirt pile.

I was raised on stories about you, and no matter what there is always someone my age, even in a group of elk I’d find the one I could talk to. I can almost swallow now - but I can’t tell. It is so much.

To My Sore Throat

I have been dreaming about papercuts. I want to sleep in sheets. You would do so much better with this salve, but I just feel like I’m drowning.

How’s this for normal life?

We walk around with bowls strapped to our backs! If we weren’t so tired from walking we might sound like bells. Instead we sound like someone smashing all the dishes. Maybe like you if you got too bored in the kitchen!

With all the grass burnt and brown for as long as I can remember, I actually had completely stopped paying attention to the morning lessons from the Old Tips:

Lesson one.
Green is the color of new
Lesson two.
Green is the color of fresh
Lesson three.
Green is the color of sugar snap peas.

Who cares when green does not exist. But not any more -
oh oh oh it was great! It all happened when I got talking to a man who was scratching in dirt. For years now, he has been scavenging for old rolling pins. There was quite a fashion for some time to have the most green handles possible on these things. (Something about preparing fresh bread with the feeling of a new day...) His collection hangs in his kitchen. They are pure new green and cover every inch of every wall.

I was standing by his sink. The water was running. I half closed my eyes. I was standing by a waterfall in a Birch forest in May. I know I don’t know that month and moss and trees are only in stories, but with peripheral vision, you can forget the facts - even if only for a second.

It is strange to think we have replaced the bees...

It seems like nothing is growing except for my bones. You’ve probably outgrown your shoes? It’s been eighteen months since I left your barn. I wonder if we go to sleep and wake up at the same time?

To My Dripping Fingers

Give me a cup of honey
Rest your fingers on my lips
I won’t grind salt into water
I’ll press my feet into dirt.
I think it is because bees have kissed your fingertips,
like there is wheat behind my ears -

I see many wings turning blue
Soaked in cornflowers and milk
I apologize for writing so small
A doctor of some repute recommended we wrap our throats in paper lined with dirt and honey for eighteen days starting last Wednesday.
It is difficult to find more then a shred to write on

It has been four days and eighteen months since I stepped in all bowls but yours...

with thoughts of open barns and circular roads which will bring you back to me,

Your smasher of bowls
owner of the sticky shoes!

To My Dry Throat

It is terrible to always leave a trail. I try to fit all my fingers in my mouth while I walk. I believe knuckles are the best part of the hand. I blame my fingertips for this situation. Sometimes I wonder if I cut them off would there still be honey?

Here is a story I never told you. It was the middle of winter. All the windows were closed. For once, everyone wanted to sleep without bowls. We slept with our fingers underneath pillows. The whole house filled with honey. We got out through an unhinged window. I’ve never seen us look so much like baby birds. For now, it is still better to keep moving. Do my updated bowls help any?


Your walking faucet

To the Honey Fingertip I Knew Once


I’m going to suck my own fingers. I’ll take a bowl - fill it with honey and put my hands in it. I met a man today. He collects burnt wood from each kitchen and keeps it in his mouth all day. He believes there is no point of going through the motions of breakfast, salt water gargling, two drops of honey - when we can embrace the drought in our throats. No distinction between the air, the earth and the dust storm inside. Maybe I don’t need your hands. You still have not come back.

My eyes changed color in the storm yesterday.

I’ve worn a lot of shoes since your salve ruined the first ones. They got covered in millions of ants. I cried when I threw them away. It’s nice of you to send me honey, but at this point I would prefer your delivery in person or not at all.

To the Only Sore Throat with Soft Hands

Are you serious? Listen

I can close my mouth and not speak. I can stop drinking and not pee. If I am offered soup at someone’s table, I stay attached to the spoon. When I put my hands inside my pockets - my ankles feel wet in minutes. If I let my hands rest on my knees - when I lift them again it sounds like ripping cloth. It doesn’t hurt. I just can’t ever sit with my hands to myself.

I am sorry I have not come back.