the garden sage plant on the windowsill always turns towards the light

i am looking for the honey wand 
to swallow like a sword. i'm not sure
if sweetness is ever not chaos. we turn the plant
each day & each day the sage reaches 
to press her leaves to the window.
i want to tell her i am sorry for our insistence 
on evenness & balance. 
i too have wanted to press my face
to the lines between where i am & where i want to burn.
i wonder if it would be so bad to just carry her
out into the yard. let her stand there
in a dead wedding dress & hold on to whatever
she wants to hold onto. i have lost so many hands
to fires that i thought would love me.
feeding them & feeding them. first they want
your eyelashes & then your hair. 
it is a brutal summer. just like every summer
comes now. the heat, in blood wings. 
so, i turn her. i let her reach again.
with her permission, pluck a few leaves
to place in my mouth. chew them.
bitter & then sound. bells turned
upside down to be used as chalices.
i am going out to the yard instead. i am 
painting my face with a cloud 
& waving to the sage plant, mouthing,
"it is better in there."