by Chris Biles

Empty here,
I’m scraping
the jelly jar,
but the knife
comes up clean.
I want that sugar
like a dedicated
honeybee that can’t
find a flower.
Honey, I need
some nectar.
I need a journey.
Road trip with me
so we can trip
on the road
and come out
less than clean.
I’m empty here,
and searching
for the plum
juice in my dead
Grandmother’s ice
chest, for the scent
of white pines
and the sight
of their fallen
gold needles,
for the warmth
of a cup of tea
on a chill autumn
day as my only
Memories: the air
in my jelly jar.
Empty, yet not.

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