Reading a line from an old book, I remember biting into a honeycomb.
I was very young. The honeycomb was crunchy and sweet.
The honey dripped down my chin and over my fingers.
All my life I have been searching to find it again,
that particular, peculiar combination, an essence
of beauty distilled in my mouth.
I hold the book at arm's length. I squint at it, pondering.
Try holding it at different angles.
It's small, and pale in color, though not the color of honey.
It smells of the bookshelf I stole it from,
from where I plucked it out from the rapacious past,
from a row of my father's books. I say that I stole it
because I am attempting to create an analogy
to someone stealing honey from a beehive,
a man in a bee veil, or a black bear.
But I am not in the woods, not in a field
among beeboxes. I'm standing at my father's bookshelves
where he will not stand again, and I take down a book.
Though I read hungrily, no stings assault me,
and if there is a taste in my mouth, it is salt and not sweet.