Mother Honey | Stella Apostolidis
Three screaming children and one lost
drew dark circles under her eyes
but all I see are sweet brown ones, like the honey they made in her village.
Mom,
we didn’t finish dancing
your old village dance in our modern kitchen;
I left too soon to learn it properly.
My steps were left mid-air,
my Grecian kick-slap not yet perfected.
Your song remains in your throat,
my absence leaving your mouth dry,
not sugary moist, not like the free
voice that defines your name-Eleftheria: freedom
and swims out of your clear liquid lips.
No, that nectar voice has been
silenced by the honey glazing over your eyes-
the honey that stings you in the making.
I asked you once before I left,
“Is happiness something you dance?”
“Yes,” you said.
And then you danced with me and showed me
how it was done.
When I saw you last, I was happy.
But your feet frowned at mine,
and the honey you put in my tea was no longer sweet.
“Distance”, you said and put your cup down.
read about the author | © 2005 Contrary Magazine