“I’m like a honey jar,” I told her.
“The last girl made such a mess of me—
and all that honey hardened
around my thicker exterior.
She twisted me shut too tight,” I said.
She sighed, palm to forehead.
“But I’m still full of sweetness,
It just takes more effort
to get me to open up,” I reassured her.
“Yeah,” she said.
“You’re still full of it, alright.”
She went to the kitchen, swung open the pantry—
and came back with the gnarliest honey jar
I’d ever laid eyes on. She set it in the sink and
took the tea kettle she’d put on to boil,
pouring steaming hot water over the beeswax.
We locked eyes and without strain,
she lifted the lid, raising it high—
drizzling honey on her lips, face,
and everything else.
“Come on, my little honey jar,” she said.
“I think you and I
take a hot shower.”
She was right—
I did need that.
she made even more a mess
than the last girl had.