Glass Poetry Press

Volume Five Issue One

Zoe Dzunko


And when we were young the grass was tall and felt wet all of the time, behind our knees and thighs, sticking to us like stubborn table confetti from time to time, dark half skulls would appear above the fence line; we'd follow them with nervous eyes, locked in anticipation, until they were gone, tiny eclipses that would so soon pass — and inside, there grew honeysuckle: small white flowers, with petals soft as ears; we would pluck, suck stems dry — ripe, flightless bees. And our grandparents watched with proud faces dissected into four quadrants behind the French glass doors — the heavy front gate locked, heaven inside — the grass and acorns and, in springtime, the flowers were sometimes not honeysuckle at all; sour with milk white blood where those pools of nectar should be, we'd be spitting it out and catch them as they peaked, on toe tips, over the fence — returning from the liquor store, crying children in tow, back to concrete smothered backyards — at us seesawing between fear and joy, inside, between them and fragrant honeysuckle, where for every bitter flower there were at least three, just like honey.