The color of honey is a strange thing at times, in the shadows it pools garnet like blood other times it is the amber of sunsets Its hues call to us but the body can be overly charming and unpleasantly tacky It calls up childhood green memories of hot summers, fruit trees and backyard hives, of white sheets and the midnight blue comfort of love and tea in hours infirm It calls up trauma; angry, red stings and swollen, plum tongues, or sticky-sweet, peach toned words, once yours, whispered to another It is an ecru beekeeper’s suit and gloves; a silver-mesh, helmeted thief It is liquid gold dripping from tender bread and pale, sliding butter It is a hushed, star-faceted jar that sits on a kitchen table, magnifying a beam of gold, dancing on the wall.
