Honey

I fold myself small as a postage stamp.
I crawl under the table.
I hide from the sky
I hide from eyes
I hide from everything
that will take me away.

Mother spreads honey on bread.
She is singing.
I stare at her knees,
large ruddy circles.
Mom, sing that song for me.
Don’t let me leave you.
Keep me inside
your warm yellow kitchen.

I am invisible
but when she is finished
she passes the honeyed bread
to my cupped fingers
in the shadows
between the cold silver legs.

Mom, keep singing.
I am your daughter.