BY Lindsey Warren
My father drove his milk truck along the demarcation where night ends and day begins. Instead of coffee he carried with him a small jar full of honey and he would ingest a spoonful. It makes me feel pretty inside, he would say, the jar tilted toward his lips. And I would nod and smile in response and think about honey thick with light, though I did not understand this need of his, and wouldn’t until many years later.
Early in the night one morning, before waking up for work, my father had a dream in which a glowing bee asked for her honey back. How about I give you the moon instead? He reached into the night sky powdered with stars, yet the moon seemed farther away than it should be. My father strained at the shoulder and splayed his fingers, but he could not touch the moon. It gleamed there, out in the middle of nowhere and everywhere. How else am I gonna see light? I’m so tired of living in the dark!
Later that day I saw my father hurry into the house. The winter sun outside gave little of itself. He looked at me wide-eyed, Open the windows! Open all the windows!
I saw his face, his lips were shining; his chin dribbled something darker than yellow. Then the color stained his shirt before melting into memory. What could I know then of light, or sweetness, when neither had yet been taken from me?
Lindsey Warren has been published in many journals including Hobart and Interim. Her poetry books Unfinished Child and Archangel & the Overlooked are available from Spuyten Duyvil. Litbreak Magazine published the first chapter of her novel-in-progress earlier this year. She lives in Delaware with her corgi.