Honey (I Put Down My Ax)

By Rasma Haidri

January 2, 2023

Honey (I Put Down My Ax)

The first one said honey was what Vietnamese hookers called from doorways, so don’t call him that. The next one said honey was a substance to spread on bread, so why did I call him that. Store clerks in the South called all of us honey. Teachers, too, even when paddling our behinds. Oh honey, I hate to have to! Honey is why I’m supposed to be careful with how much heather I hack to clear the cliffside path where I want to walk with bad knees. Because of the bees, you know, says the gardener who knows all there is to know about the bees and the birds and the flowers and the trees. And this thing called love. Honey is just another word for love, even when you eat it on bread. The world needs honey, and each bee gives his life to making a spoonful. Or so I read on a jar in 1993 and took it to be marketing hyperbole to justify the price of honey. That was a city thought. I was a city girl then. Now I live in a wilderness where the gardener I call honey has given her life to planting flowers. For the bees, you know. She’s teaching me, too, about honey and flowers and bees. And love. So I bend to lift the heather, press it to the side, tie it back from the path with a vine handed to me for that purpose by a tree.


Rasma Haidri lives on a Norwegian seacoast island. Her second poetry collection, Blue Like Apples, is forthcoming from Rebel Satori Press. Visit her at www.rasma.org


Image courtesy of the author

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