The Honey Month

She had no hair, no eyebrows, but her face was perfect, cabochon-smooth, and she was crying. Smell: Strange, it has almost no scent at all; it’s also crystallised, so it’s a bit difficult to scoop some out with the wand, but it smells cold with an elusive citrus squirt hovering about its edges. She drinks the light like lemonade, sips it bit by liquid bit, until the day falls dark and soft licked slow-as-honey clean. She won the 2009 Rhysling Award with her poem “Song for an Ancient City,” and co-edits Goblin Fruit, an online quarterly dedicated to fantastical poetry, with Jessica P.