sunlight through the honey jar, Second Place in Poetry

    sunlight through the honey jar

    by Savannah Bradley

    we argue over the pronunciation of caramel for an hour
    in the car. i say it the long way, the “wrong way,” according to him.
    look it up. if he’s right, i’ll buy him a glass-coated cream cola-
    glutinous and teeth-ruining, the flavor that tastes like me.

    he’s right, then shatters the bottle in the gas station parking lot
    before we dissolve. we listen to the chain and i yell at him
    to keep both hands on the wheel after the guitar solo detonates.
    keep us together. aquatic graveyards and tobacco flower canopies

    yes, i have seen all of carolina. i know the south and i know him,
    infuriating, spellbinding, feet running in clay. hold the magic.
    i don’t fight him for tenderness. it’s already there, and i can feel it
    when he asks me if i want to stop to eat on the road or tells me to

    get some sleep in the backseat. filling me up with love like a
    locust swarm, he asks me what kind of house i want when we’re
    antique and ornery. i don’t want a front door. i want something
    like this, something that moves. we carry, we crystallize, we arrive

    walking into the old house, my grandfather does not care
    about his long hair or combat boots or pirate teeth. instead,
    he seethes at his melanin. native blood- the color of sunlight
    through the honey jar, kar-mull, love.