ISSUE 5

Sarah Burke

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Honey Badger Speaks

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You’ve never known what you want, let alone
how to rip it from the ground. You’re the same

little sad sack you’ve always been, watching
the sunrise over the chain link, flower beds

of dirt and broken glass, ivy climbing
the rusted mailbox. Tell me, how many cobra

skins have you shucked from the muscle?
When was the last time you plunged

your head into a beehive, sucked
the larva from the sting? Wipe the pixels

from your eyes, you sleepy fuck. It’s time
to dig, like this, claws deep in the changing

earth. Do you feel it yet? The stickleback
growing plates of armor? The hermit crabs

sheathed in plastic shells? Like us, you were born
to fight for scraps at the end of the party.

Remember, in another century,
there’s an unburned stake with your ancestor’s

name on it, a tiny skull that didn’t fracture
her pelvis, a virus that couldn’t crack its way

into her cells. You’ll never be a tough
motherfucker, but you’re here. Pump the venom

from your veins, or don’t. Cry as the ice
retreats, or follow it north like everybody else.

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