Jennifer Lewis



It starts as a trickle, a
slow flow of treacle,

thick so it sticks
to the tongue.

Drill too soon and it freezes,
too late & it’s already run.

It drips like the slip
of a secret, bears pressure

like thousands of lies pressed together
and singly exposed. It seeps

to the tin, weeps from the rough
sugared rim of the hose.

Coy boil, a cloying viscidity
ambered from fancy to dark—

product of pith,
surrendered by tractable bark.