Honeysuckle

is taste not scent,
memory pulling
a blossom apart:

how we craved
the green edge of it,
scouted branches

in June, walked
barefoot, our clothes
sour with seawater.

We pissed in the ocean,
let our burns peel,
as we searched our

bodies for ticks, fat
with blood, bursting.
Found seaweed

tangled in creases,
as we pried off
bathing suits under

rust tinged showers
of well water,
counted the spider

bites, ran our hands
over the soft fat
of thighs, built

constellations of ache.