Honey under the Bed
I lived in the midst of a few world upheavals.
In the USSR, then in Ukraine, and lastly in America.
Through the loss of safety in Manhattan on 9/11,
Walking across the bridge overlooking the burning towers.
The era of the Soviet stagnation in my childhood,
Then perestroika and the end of central planning,
Then the reveal of the atrocities of Stalin,
Followed by the collapse of the Soviet Union.
Yet, thinking about that does not evoke much feeling.
I can assign emotions to these memories, but they ring hollow.
Instead, let me tell you about the jar of honey under the bed
That my family kept for storing three liters of honey in the winter.
My grandfather must have known a beekeeper.
The honey that he bought was said to be from buckwheat.
It was the color of a beautiful amber with purple and black
And as the winter progressed, it would crystallize in the jar.
Every now and then we would visit the jar
To transfer some honey into a smaller container
That we took to the kitchen and ate at varied pace.
Each time, the honey would be harder to extract.
I remember having to stick my whole hand in the jar
When there was only a small amount of honey left.
Cannot say I enjoyed the stickiness on my arm
After laboring to break off solidified honey from the bottom.
The moral of the story is, that I never bent the spoon
In this exercise of applying it to the hardened honey.
Could it be that Soviet spoons were very sturdy?
I can’t imagine any spoon from my current kitchen
Standing up to this task.
Dissociation
I was there with you in your bed
In charge some of the time,
The focus of your attention all of the time.
Embodiment with abandon.
And now, the next day,
Or the next hour,
We are in your kitchen having tea.
I am having an unpleasant “out of body” experience.
The world doesn’t seem real,
And I don’t know much about it.
Not a single clever thought in my brain,
Or anything appropriate to say.
Where did all the useful parts of me go.
This must be my true self.
Soon I will be found out as a fraud.
I feel unlovable, incompetent, disconnected,
Weirdly uncertain about who I am.
Somehow both unsafe and absent.
Zoya Davis-Hamilton (she/her) grew up in the Soviet Union, lived in Ukraine, New York City, Arkansas, and now Boston. Zoya goes through life overthinking, seeking queer communities and building friendships, and drinking tea. She is very new to writing poetry.
DIY MFA 