honey and sting

Some poems are almost
too intimate to read.
They curl inside you like the smoky
tongue of sex, like something steaming up
your leg
or dripping down.

They tease you like a finger,
horrifying, vital,
the rude, violent stab that
touches where you've starved.

Your fingers burn. The letters sting.
You feel the hollow where your heart should be.
Or feel it full, too much to share,
too intimate,
the rawness of it, confusion.

Like waking in another's dream,
only it's their body, or their
grief, too real, too raw,
and it leaves you
stunned, and it leaves you,
all alone.

Because it's done, suddenly.
Last line, nothing more. Tra la.
Go about your business.

Only you don't. Because you're gasping, or too tense.
Too recognized, too real, just one more breath, until release,
but it's so hard to take, just out of reach, trembling
on the verge of understanding and pain.