Poetry

A Spoonful of Acacia Honey

Dikra Ridha

Bullets don’t just kill strangers.

My spoon stirred black tea round to a whirl.
I saw my auntie in a dream last night; a little old lady walking home

with a shopping bag. She ducked down swiftly,
hid behind a wall, strangers showed her to a back alley,
my eyes followed her diving through a hole in a wall,
her bag swung silently as she stumbled over debris, blind bullets

rushed as she sprang round a bend—arsenic gray sky—
between the shadows she almost tripped over her coat,
then found an empty path to her door. Tiny feet with prayers

and luck got her home that time, not to go out again.
A spoonful of Acacia honey is better than sugar for my hips

she said once. Toast pops out burnt, I butter it and wonder

if I should make that call.