Locusts and Honey

by Jesse Breite

The doctor says my sister tears her skin
because she sees bugs. Her nails shovel
through her body until it spurts blossoms.
Along the gutter’s underbelly, I spot
the transparent loaf of a shell split-open.
I climb a ladder, pluck its molt off the house.
Somewhere this released spirit crows
mysteries—sacred through its cedar throat.
I marvel at glimmering thorax, its distant voice.
She sits in a cold room, prying herself open.
In the kitchen, I turn off light, burn candles,
anoint with honey, and tongue the heavy gem.

Read Jesse Breite’s The Knife Collector.
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