HONEYMOON
everything smells like honeysuckle
at the wedding and I think what it must be
to love like leaving a tab open
or a thrown bouquet that will not
hit the ground.
at the open bar all of the drinks have clove—
have the taste of a summer I am lucky
to have lived through. A man tells me
he can’t stop thinking about Sisyphus—
says in all his dreams the halls are inclined.
we agree that all things eternal
are damnation but I keep thinking of the dress
of red wine spilled on white sheets
and the honeymoon.
LITTLE DIPPER
ladle that dark into my mouth
and maybe it will taste
like honey or like lobster bisque
will be so dense on my tongue that I
will barely be able to lift it
when I say to you
I saw the closing of the hands
each night around the sun
and that it did not feel like love
to be held only for the sake
of being hidden.
McCaela Prentice (she/her) is living in Astoria, NY. Nudibranchs are her favorite gastropods. Her poems have previously appeared in Hobart, Ghost City Review, and Perhappened. Her debut chapbook “Junk Drawer Heart” was published in 2020 by Invisible Hand Press.