Sarah J. Sloat Canaan Ghazal The dribble of goats down the hill is not honey.
Taste the air? The village's will is not honey.
Beyond conifers, sundown brushes the sea
but the color of that light's spill is not honey.
The holy insisted, and the village agreed
the spine of a rifle laid still is not honey.
Folk song, revolving like a lopsided wheel,
the promise you make and fulfill is not honey.
Alfalfa abounds, sage and white clover thrive,
but the blooms the bees toil to mill is not honey.
Without news, a girl props her chin on a fist.
Yellow dust that rests on her sill is not honey.