Honeycomb

By Julia Aloi

There is an old Tolstoy fable

I like to think about.

A man, running away from a beast,

hurls himself into a well,

only to find a dragon at the bottom.

 

He hangs onto an olive branch,

the midpoint of two reapers.

A pack of mice scurry onto the branch

and gnaw away at its root.

 

The man soon notices

a drop of honey

on one of the leaves and licks it up,

a momentary treat

before the eternal beast swallows him.

 

I have not found my drop of honey,

but I am trying my best

to remain distracted.

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