Boiled Honey

Poem, fiction

Smells like arid mornings in August
Grass dead, yellow and spiked
The bees napping, like grandpa is
And the crickets chirp for no audience
Save for the dog down the road
Whose ears perk lazily with every bug’s shout

I walk in the dirt, my feet barefoot and scraped; my nose peeling, my lips dry
Starched shirts on the clothesline still 
The boiled honey air filling my belly
I kick a pinecone, watch it tumble down the hill towards the river

I want to wake grandpa to go fishing
In that little tin boat he’s had since youth
We nearly sink, the both of us in there
I’ll be eleven soon and soon he’ll be much older than that
But every morning he makes coffee like tar and lets me have a sip
His cigarette dangling idly, forgotten
We put honey on white bread
Makes your mouth full of sludge
We smile wheat smiles and chirp like the crickets

It’s how we say I love you