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poetry


BAD HONEY
by
Karina Borowicz

Itís not painful anymore to listen

to the radiator tell the truth, to the refrigerator

clear its throat and say two honest words, my ears

have been healed of all the maladies theyíve been

storing up like bad honey, and now my busy hive

is powered purely and shines with a clean blue light

thatís visible even from a distance when I lie

in the field at night counting the drops Iíve managed

to collect: that face, that sigh, that hand

clutching a bag filled with torn bread, itís music

to me now, all the whining of tiny wings

and rubbing of prickly legs.



Karina Borowicz has recent work in AGNI Online, New Ohio Review, and Rattle. Her translations have appeared on Poetry Daily. She lives in Western Massachusetts.



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