Poeta invitada: Chirstine Fearnside

One Sunday Morning

Inside the well-lit house
that is my aunt's own mind,

she fancied I was speaking
and thought of having honey,

so she put down her tray
and went to find the jar,

and taking off the lid
had got a spoonful ready,

when memory could give
no detail of the site

she'd left, where just before
she'd been remembering.

She laughed recounting later:
she'd gone the rounds tongue sweet

in dark and searched by feel.
I heard and tasted too.