It’s a shame when grown-folks see it get to
storming and blow it’s time to go in. What more
are porches made for if not for rain? I know if it
were honey and fell steady as it does now
to make sweet candy of the roads, we’d be out there. Hell,
we’d be swimming in it, our bodies flat and
laid down like a burden, arms up, even ladies’ legs spread:
just do anything to be both brown and sugar again.
Though I can see that stickiness fixing itself to the brain,
treating it like a can, rusting it, then those prayers
calling out please, Lord, open up with water till their skins would
no more hum with flies, till every face was clean.
I’ll take my gamble though, belly-sliding through that bee-spit.
So go on, call me childish, but—be honest, man—
won’t you join me? Won’t you help me find a road to make
a cross out of us, Southern since it’s us,
where the only place to go is for you to go in me?
—rickey laurentiis, honeycombed.