The Honeys

by Ryan La Sala

grief, I have learned, cracks us into pieces that make all sorts of strange, alarming shapes

We know, too. We play the game. It’s less a game and more the choreography of survival. It just feels like a game in all its mysterious rules and mundane choreography. You sit, your legs together. You laugh, but not too loud. You speak, but only in answers. You reveal all things through subtext. You’re the closed flower, the lidded jar, the blanketed birdcage.