“The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine.” -Cherry Wine, Hozier

 

The wine-red honey

courses through her elastic veins

as it had for years and years,

the same with her mother,

her mother,

and the entire matriline,

before that.

 

In her wise years,

she now noticed

the sharp but

unfamiliar aroma of

strength in the honey,

and any passerby

could catch a whiff

through her translucent flesh.

 

Though the honey runs deep—

that will never change—

the ones closest to her

had another kind of honey,

not the same as her’s,

but, oh, so close.

 

Those with the wine-red like she?

It was never quite as sweet,

never quite as pure,

as the others—

the others who were there

unconditionally.