Daughter of the Irishman and the Honeybee
There are tales of voracious men
Fathers with sharp teeth,
husbands with claws
My mother knew one
He drank her milk from her baby’s mouth,
stole honey from a hive
He saw my hunger and scolded it,
watching as I wept for the sustenance my mother knew how to provide
My father was a fire, all-consuming and vicious
His flames could never be suffocated, only discouraged
He taught me the duality of man,
consuming my flesh while wishing I was whole,
cradling my head while pouring salt into my wounds
He forced me to eat against the edge of a silver blade,
offering bread to soak up the blood on my tongue
Hunger was intimate and shameful
My mother was too busy trying to survive to remember my first word
She said maybe it was momma
like a plea of some sort
Don’t you dare leave me with this man
Tell me I do not share his blood
Does she know I have his nose?
Mollie McMullan is a student at SUNY Geneseo. When she’s not playing with her dog somewhere in Long Island, she’s lip-synching to the longest songs possible and illustrating birthday cards.