Sweet Tooth
The days when you put honey in your tea
were full of hope. Usually
you had your green tea plain,
nothing but microwaved
matcha green tea all day long, but
that week
honey was healthier than sugar,
better than blueberries, near
miraculous: boosting immunity!
healing wounds! curing MRSA!
but then it wasn’t
and all sugar was sugar,
unleaded cancer fuel, and then
it was even worse, part corn syrup and lies.
Then came Passover, which you had never
celebrated before and would never
celebrate again, your last chance
to make your son ask
the Four Questions. Mah nishtana?
For your son, anything,
even honey – so you both
ate the bitter and the sweet.
Oh Lori, what does it matter
that you liked halved grapes
in your tuna salad
now that you’re dead?
______________________________________________________________________________________
Four Years After Leaving You, I Walk Past Our Old Place
The earthshine moon hangs low in the sky as I arrive
at our first apartment, its curved white belly a celestial scythe
over the bobbing necks of those rock doves that flock
to the wrought iron widow’s walk and probably
still roost in the attic. The residents before us were mail-order brides,
eight of them, mattresses wedged wall-to-wall
on berber carpet the color of burnt rice, a flurry
of Xeroxed passports left behind – Russia, Ukraine, Belarus.
We moved our sweaters into their discarded dresser, then took stock
of our inheritance: paprika, black tea, powdered acetaminophen.
The living room was shaped like a crooked tooth, floor tilted one way,
ceiling another. The water ran red and could be ice cold for days
on end. Homeless men spent cold nights in the stairwell
until one of them pissed there. An evicted tenant left his radiators
bristling with used needles, and the brunette who lent me those cupcake tins
begged her husband to stop choking her in front of the kids. How many times
did I call the police on their shrieks, wishing they’d return the favor
just once and send those heavy boots to stop us? Now a new tenant
stands at the stovetop where I taught your nephew how to scramble
eggs, how to fish shell shards from yolk before they harden
inside. The man slams the window and the rock doves rise,
a swoop of razors in looping synchrony, and a chorus of shadows
spatter the sidewalk. At the end of the street, the gingko tree is a geyser
of glowing gold, of sunlight solidified, spiraling in the breeze. I don’t remember this
beauty here. I skirt the raw edges of churches and row-houses, the way sun rays
rouge pigeon bellies as they rise from the alley shadows. The moon
trails me like a glass marble, rolls along rooftops, drops
into a chimney, and emerges unscathed.
Atira Zeoli is a poet, artist, meditation teacher, and mother. Her work has appeared in PLENTY and other publications, both print and online. For many years, she has led poetry workshops in schools, arts centers, and other community spaces. Raised in Poolesville, MD and Sedona, AZ, she now lives in Maryland with her family.