We lived in a house made of honey, me and you,
drip in the walls never wavering, a poor fit
for a fatherless girl and a widow, the shimmer of sun fading into
torn wallpaper, yellowed with age. It was supposed to be sweet, but me,
I would shiver to stay warm, fearing your sting, like
a little bee. One fat summer day, I found a
wet stain on the kitchen ceiling, swollen as a hook
dipped in plaster. Mother, remember how we stared, fret locked into
our knuckles and lips, watching a neighbor unholster an
old power drill, eager to find for you the leaking pipe? Closed eye,
we sprinted out of the heavy house, down the drive as a
swarm of bees poured from their hive between stories, leaping like fish
and I wanted to leave right then more than ever but feared your hook,
the funnel of fury, windows darkened with winged bodies, an
apocalypse of fleeing to sunlight, exodus through the open
front door. I knew then I could no longer trust you. Never since looked you in the eye.
—after Margaret Atwood (a golden shovel)
