Lucky Tiger and the Color of Honey

The sun-dappled bedroom is freckled with shadows from the pepper tree boughs. The scent of tomato vines wafts in from the garden next door through open windows. Clumsy bees cross paths with white butterflies along the wooden fence. Hot, late afternoon.

Petals, velvet on the nightstand where they fall. Brass incense box with a Korean palace carved into the lid. Water in a marble cup. Softness that comes with bare legs in cotton sheets.

Lucky Tiger pulling on my braids. He is fragrant—like salt, clove, and cognac. Skin like honey, kissed by the sun. Eyes black as nigella seed, touched by the stars. His haircut is one day old. Outstretched fingers find the tight taper at his nape. Hair soft as an ink brush, and just as black. Cheek scar older than his name. His chin above my throat, veins pumping with gold. I lose the meaning of the words that we are saying, and they roll out, one exhalation, over and over like a tide pulling. This is not my native language. My ancestors’ tongues never bent this way. When they learned later, they were not children and never perfected it.

We ate honey and nothing else this summer. Hearts full of honey, dripping down our hips. Our throats, coated with syrup, form rich, lustrous words and our skin glows.

The smooth curves of his calves I can feel with my foot. Pointed toes, dirty as a dancer. Ballerina pink against the calf, dark as barley. The firm slope of his back, hard, holding me up. Knees against the fleshy contour of his ass, then my heel, pressed in, tilted. Broad shoulders flex and bend. Lips against the landscape of his arms, his belly. Divot and dimple, bulging muscle, solid, glistening like quartz.

He can shapeshift. His body twists. He is a tiger with a tiger’s mouth. Ropey white strings of saliva streaming from gum and incisor. Fangs larger than my fingers covered with foam draw my open mouth because together we are deathless and unafraid. My touch gives him peace. He’s a man again. He’s healed.