The concentration of honey by Sara Martin
The concentration of honey
In the morning my father pops toaster cakes in the oven, most of them moist-licking Kerrygold on the top. I watch the blaring of the sun above the sink and hold a cereal box in front of my face. In the mornings my mother says as slow as molasses. My moss blanket and I pick up crumbs off and clean the floor for tomorrow
In other houses where i’ve become a woman, mornings roll on, mornings lay cheek down on the pavement and mornings feel like silk robes that wives with vanities must own. My boy's windows are bare— mornings without curtains, mornings that held only little pockets of sun that now cover his floor in absolute white: lips as rolling pins, in other houses than my own new with how the space between each shoulder would be something that I now measure on a body. When he puts a razor to his jaw, when he dances, when I cannot sleep, so instead I stare, until the moss has grown tired around our ankles, and molasses has curled itself behind our heads.
Sara Martin is currently a Poetry MFA candidate at New York University. Her work has appeared in Rag Queen Periodical, Sea Foam Mag, Alien Mouth, Hellscape Press, and Breadcrumbs. She enjoys equal rights and sharks. You can find her on Twitter as @thekitteninme and on Instagram as @sara.i.think