Sonia Greenfield

Sonia Greenfield was born and raised in Peekskill, New York, and her book, Boy with a Halo at the Farmer’s Market, won the 2014 Codhill Poetry Prize. Her work has appeared in a variety of places, including in 2010 Best American Poetry, The Antioch Review, The Bellevue Literary Review, Cimarron Review, Cream City Review, The Massachusetts Review, Meridian, and Rattle. She lives with her husband and son in Los Angeles, California, where she edits the Rise Up Review and co-directs the Southern California Poetry Festival.



This Bitterness


Is a jar of honey found

at the back of the pantry,


and I can’t say how long

it’s been there. I try


the lid, but it’s glued

shut with old sweetness,


the honey granulated

and dark. I try to turn


the lid, but it won’t give.

I whack it with a butter knife,


but it’s stuck tight. I run

it under hot water but it


doesn’t budge. I hand it

to my man who gives it


a go, but no. No way in

knowing the door is a jar


sealed against my own

best interest. I shove it


to the back again and drink

the tannins of my tea straight


while the honey hardens

into a pillar of candy


enclosed in glass, a simple

kindness I can’t have.


They Say Dropping Like Flies


Which kind? Let’s try mayfly.

Do you remember how they hung

in the air like delicate question marks?

A curtain of them to part

with your body in late spring. Lasting

just a day to mate, their green

in the morning like the first blades

of new grass, but by afternoon

a same green like the back

of an old woman’s hand.

Or is it the fat, black flies born

of something dead in the basement?

Heavy buzz and thwack against

kitchen windows in a pack

like a Foley artist fine-tuning

fear. Do they fall from flying?

And if they do, do they know

that they do, as we do know

that we will, as they do,

so we say drop as? Bucket lists

kept short and sweet: make love

while flying and lay eggs

in meat.



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