by Treehouse Editors
from Darren Higgins, author of Wapiti
Nothing drips quite like honey, so slow and sweet. Nothing shines. Nothing stays. The stickiness comes as a surprise but then I like it. Does honey wrap around your tongue? It does. Around and around. It does. Honey is liquid time. Honey remembers us, that’s what we want to believe. Honey tastes like.
I once sat in an awful patch of grass, more dirt than grass, really; it was sharp and unevenly cut, at odds with itself, poking my palm. Then I felt a tickle at my fingers. A ladybug. I watched her climb my arm, then returned her to the grass many ladybug-miles from me. But she returned. She found me. She kept coming back. She preferred me to the grass.
I have never had a tattoo nor really even considered it, but if I do ever get a tattoo then let it be a fancy old key right there on the inside of my left wrist, near the delta of my veins, near the tendons that rise like cables when I make a fist, floating upon the twitch of my pulse. What is a key? What is it really? I think the key is desire.
No one suspects the kiwi. Who would? No one suspects that it is my favorite fruit, more favorite than even the strawberry (though I do like to bite strawberries, I won’t mislead you). The unassuming kiwi. What are you hiding? But I know! I already know.
The rhythm of the train is the rhythm of the masquerade. I am never myself on a train. I am a performer, to be seen, to be looked over. But that’s all right. You are never yourself either. You take me by the hand and push me into my seat. You smile. I turn my eyes toward the window, watching the golden fields pass slow and sweet as honey.