remembering honey

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it was the summer of 2010.
i looked out at the Melbourne ocean.
i was remembering Jamaica
and small white stones
under bare feet.
i remember someone
fetching water down by the
road side water pump,
jackfruit and sugar cane
growing along the way.
was it my grandmother or uncle?
was it Papa, my grandfather,
who pumped water for eight children?
i was too young to remember
the details but the feelings remain.
memories of guineps and jackfruit and
honeycombs live inside that place in
me where significant memories
are carved in stone.
papa was a beekeeper.
i remember this.
i remember many things,
like the sweetness of fresh
warm honey on my tongue,
honey sucked clean from
a honeycomb on an
island that remembers
maroons and tainos
and genocide not so sweet.
not so sweet; not like honey.

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