after Graham Foust

On a near-suicidally clear
day of wind,

I heard your complaint of
toothache

in the form of fingertips
gentle on jaw.

The word      suffer
comes to mind.

Who could have imagined
the origin of that glass hive

honey jar between your knees.
I pull a spoon from

my throat & you say
I’m metal on your tongue.

The word      suffer
quickly becomes cliché.

If you touch your
mouth to my hand,

we are a neighborhood
the police are afraid

to patrol. I float
a palmful of honey across

your tongue & you
brace for the bee sting.

Here we are again, back
at the word      suffer.

Listen to that word, how
sibilant gives way to fricative.

Contained in the space
between those two sounds lies

you, the slo-mo demise
of the singular first person.

S.R. Aichinger has an MFA in creative writing from Creighton University in Omaha, NE, where he lives. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Into the Void Magazine, Bluestem, Snapdragon: A Journal of Art & Healing, Ghost City Review, Gyroscope Review, The Paragon Journal, and Cruel Garters, among others. He keeps a garden in his shower.