After I try to give you happiness

    what you unwrap is box

    of yellowjackets, stinging
nettles, and jellyjars filled with broken glass.

    This is not for the cottonhearted.

    This is for the man who holds fire
between his fingers and calls it love.
 
  We are burnt

  toast and prism jam.
We are rubbing ourselves

    with the underside of a fern
 
    trying to make the stinging stop.
There are remedies everywhere—

    from beekeeper’s honey to handmade
 
    soap—we are told what to hold
near our skin. We are the stained
 
    towels and the sainted
 
    bohemian monarch that can’t fly.
Or doesn’t want to.

    I place a constellation in my hand,
 
    then complain about the burning.
Life weighs me down when I am tired.
 
    Let’s not pretend we have rocks

    in our pockets. Though I always pretend
I am the novelist and you are the river.