seems luxury enough and heaven
when you're down to your last few
slices of bread, a tub of rancid butter.
but look, in the ice box, thought long dead.
suddenly, this jar of honey;
o small apartment wilderness
by miracles fed.
this forgotten jar
I would break open at yourr feet, oh Christ,
knowing who you are
providing for me
in what the neighbors label,
mary angela douglas 2 july 2016