There were 3 jars on the mantel
that gleamed down at me like heavenly orbs
Ashes, Water, and Honey.
Ashes - it was blue, with red dots round the rim -
and a tiny small photo of Henry pinned on front.
Water, from our baptisms, not to spill but to remember.
Honey, the magic food of ancient Egypt, the love-labour of flowers,
its jar was hazel-gray and curved like a
They all stared down at me, trinity, a vow, three sisters
and I wanted to be a fourth jar.
I painted myself, the Ophelia jar, silky white and tied it with a red string.
When he came with wide-eyed lunacy -
I sliced a sliver of my palm. I let the
blood run into the fourth jar. It was not catharsis but it was something.
So I poured more and more of myself in.
Now there are 4 jars on the mantel,
smiling down at me like heavenly, dizzy, rebellious orbs.
Ashes, Water, Honey, and Blood.
The Ophelia jar is almost full.
But honey is still the heaviest.