harvest
my father stops calling me honey
because boys are not sweet
they are gravel spilling out of open mouths
on the playground
and when i start looking more and more
like a man, he begins to trip
over the gravel
that he imagines
has grown into bigger
and more dangerous rocks
that if he comes too close
may crush something inside him instead
but i was never the kind of boy
that ate gravel or threw rocks
i watched
how honeysuckle grew
on backyard fences
and the brick walls of public pool houses
and in the summer i would sit
in the shade and pluck them
tuck them into mickey mouse beach towels
tied into baskets
or leave them for safe-keeping
in another kid’s hair
like presents or secrets
but now that i am
a man—
when i kiss someone
i imagine pressing them
into a surface like water
picking a honeysuckle
from above their head
and pressing the wet end
into their mouth like a cigarette
assuring them that they can also
be gentle and sweet
in case no one ever did.
