friend has a white beard and head of hair,
like a woodsman Santa Claus.
sits in the wicker chair on his front porch,
me he just doesnt understand poetry.
you want to say something about love,
dont talk about trees blowin in the wind,
says with a frown of frustration. Just talk about
He doesnt understand that his stories,
in his southern baritone, are poetry.
one about Tupelo honey, how the bees
out like soldiers into the Apalachicola
full with white blossoms.
says sometimes the honeys amber color casts a green hue
its sweetness will never granulate because its so pure.
mouth waters as he describes the perfect
brulee. The biggest mistake, he says,
not enough water in the water bath.
the custard from the heat like a vegetarian
beef. When youre ready to serve it,
the torch (for him a two syllable word),
a slow and even motion, like a mother
a baby in her arms, as you harden the sugar.
we speak of getting older,
points to his hair, little lines outside
eyes, the belly over the belt. I say Id love
be like I was twenty years ago. He tells me,
we have to give up what we
to become who we were meant to be.
he says he doesnt understand poetry.
Henderson has studied poetry at Mercer University. She lives
in Macon, Georgia, with her husband and two children.