November 1, 2017 orangeq2017


If you’ve never stopped to look at a spoonful of honey mid-drip, then you don’t know what it’s like to slow way down. You’ve never felt your eyes dry out wholly just to moisturize again from a thicker,
viscous air.

Go to your window, the one that opens up onto the parking lot and the green garden corner. Open up everything wide.

I’ve left a smear of liquid gold for you to press your nose against. For you to bat your eyelashes. Let the honey pearl up between dendrite hairs.

For you to hear the stretch of golden taffy. The hum of general motors later. It will all still be there out there somewhere for you. Trust the bees. They’ve been doing it for centuries.

But first, become unstuck to the way things used to come to you. Slit the skin between your thumb and finger. Remember the slow wave of pain. Remember the night your stomach turned to knots. It was starry and silent and beautifully complex.

Your fingerprints, renewed, how they will begin to glow. Soon, you’ll remember how to touch again.


Cameron Finch is a short story writer and poet whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Midwestern Gothic, Across the Margin, Dream Pop Press, Exceptions Journal, and elsewhere. She hails from Ann Arbor, Michigan, where she likes to tap dance in place whilst waiting for the light to turn at crosswalks. Cameron is currently an MFA candidate in Writing and Publishing at Vermont College of Fine Arts, and serves as the Managing Editor of the college’s literary journal, Hunger Mountain. Find her online at

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