hard honey by Aubri Kaufman
jesus saves finger-cut through filth, layer-
caked to an airstream windshield,
a holding cell for crinkled paper maps,
once-loved, but fruitless now, and
not because no one uses paper, anymore,
but because they don’t travel
like they used to, because
they haven’t touched bare
skin in over a decade or
leaned into each other’s ramblings
in twice as long, haven’t had a reason to
put the thing in park,
worry about the luggage tomorrow,
sink into the familiar front porch creak,
swipe mud-trodden boots across the well-worn mat
beckoning a warm, thick, welcome home.
Aubri Kaufman (she/her) is a poet and a mental health clinician from New Jersey. Some of her recent work is featured in Eunoia Review, The Daily Drunk, and Pink Plastic House. She can be found on Twitter at @aubrirose.