sugar rain 

who taught you how
to drink from a honeysuckle? 
i remember my mother plucking 
one off the roaring bush
along the side of
the road to the park--
she peeled back the soft petals
& the nectar dripped like 
rain from the gutter--
i wondered if maybe i stayed there
all year round if i could
live off of honeysuckles--
taking sips like butterflies 
or hummingbirds--
wing beat throbbing--
bush sprawling out-- holding
onto the surrounding trees to sturdy 
herself--
where have you scattered
the fragments of yourself?
i plucked out my freckles
& pressed them in the soil
beneath the honeysuckle
bush one by one until 
my face was empty--
i kept the limestone
kiln fort beneath my tongue
like a pearl until it got
too heavy & i had to 
bury it out by the creek--
my lost teeth have grown
into spearmint leaf bushes 
behind my old bunk bed
& out on top of the cemetery 
hill in kutztown i 
took a hand shovel & covered
one of my knee caps in
dirt for you--
i threw my rib like a boomerang
only to get it stuck in the branches
of the tree in your backyard--
the one we climbed like 
squirrels & in the sand box 
at the park is where i snapped
off my knuckles as easy as legos--
& when i see honeysuckle bushes 
i remember how my mother taught me
to peel back the white petals 
& drink like a butterfly
& beneath the bush i see my freckles
sprouting into new bushes &
new mother's fingers gripping
the necks of plucked white flowers--
& new daughters learning how
to drink & wondering how
long they could survive 
drinking nectar
in droplets from the honeysuckle
bush-- bursting into sugar rain
from the side of the road--