HONEY
By Liza Rose
the summer i quit Prozac, sun
melted my mind. i somersaulted
through seconds, minutes, days, dazed
in the dry July heat. come see the horses,
M said, so i went to her grandmother’s farm—
all green grass and painfully blue, blue
sky. behind a wooden fence, a cherry-brown
horse wore a fly mask. i was thinking of being
blindfolded, spun around, released into a life
i did not recognize. flies hummed around
synapses, liquified grey matter. i had become
unreal, a mirage
of a girl. my mother worried. the cinnamon horse
swished her tail dismissively. in the cool shade of
the barn among hay, spiderwebs, wood, there was a fresh litter
of kittens, fat-bellied and happy, peach cream fur
like the chai with milk and honey i’d had on the drive,
cheek pressed to the warm-cool glass, small pleasures
i’d allowed myself. a kitten was placed in my hands.
i watched my alien face swim in his baby blue
eyes (that would soon turn yellow), and felt, for the first time in months,
real. when we returned from a four-wheeler ride, baptized
by mud and spiders, and the barn kitten brushed me, i knew i was
his, that i would live for him, that i would live. now,
he curls on my bed, paws bunched together like
the bundle of wheat i carried at my first holy communion.
he is an extension of my soul. yes, i am aware i did not give birth
to him, that he would exist with or without me, but
sometimes i imagine i coaxed him into being, as though
he was the smell of nectar on the breeze i begged for purpose,
as though some of the sweet sweat of my soul solidified
into something pure. i kiss his pink nose, pink ears, each pink toe.
he is soft as a peach. he smells like maple syrup and honey.
i inhale him. sweet creature, never let me go.
Liza Rose (she/her) is a poet from rural Pennsylvania now living in New York City with her barn-born orange cat, Chai Honey. She received her MFA from NYU’s creative writing program. Her work has been published by, or is forthcoming from, Academy of American Poets, West Trade Review, and Mississippi Review, among others. She loves insects, horror, and being alive.
Artwork Source: Printed Cotton, c. 1941, by Catherine Fowler. From the Public Domain.
turningleafjournal.com 