The honey was thick --
oozing across the afternoon baked cement,
shards of shattered glass
littered the heavy, bubble-filled syrup.
My father’s face
molted with purple anger, square jaw clenched;
there I was,
bent over the seat of his ‘73 Chevy truck
(“Betsy Blue Eyes”)
with the skirt of my plaid jumper pulled up around my hips.
His hand
slamming against my body; on display for the whole neighborhood
My face
hot with humiliation as I tried to avoid the sticky liquid gold.
I remember, I see
my small, Ked-shod foot, knocking over the 40 oz. jar,
even though today,
my father swears it wasn’t my fault.
*Recently published
