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.
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.