Feeding on Nectar

Elbow on the stovetop, jar in
Her left hand.
Amber icicles melted
From silver
As they met her
Tongue and catalyzed
The tales of a girlhood
Later supplanted
By too many confessions.

Smaller versions of herself
Alighted upon each utterance
With sodden lips and
Visages crimson from flight.

               Let me tell ya’ ‘bout
               The birds and the bees
               And the flowers and the trees and
               The moon up above

               And a thing called love.


Years later:

My thoughts siphon
Widowed images:
Toes warmed in the crooks of arms;
The laughter that followed
My plunge from a virgin dock;
Cunning glances;
Stolen smiles;
Feet finding feet
Beneath murky waters.

I recoil
Then surrender
And finally I speak:
“I always thought
My children would know
The taste
Of the bees’ labor
With their own tongues.”

Droplets convene,
Gather momentum, and slide
Like honey down glass.
She sighs heavily
And offers
No response.

I lift my hand to my face.
              It comes back sticky.

-CLH