Between the Honeycomb and the Sea

A clownfish survives

in the arms of an anemone:

its poison is protection,

a ritual of sting and shelter

What is it,

if not the push and pull of love

of an Asian family

a bond so deep

it suffers inside the sea

When my partner says,

“Just tell your mom how you feel,”

I try. I really try.

But the words stick in my throat

Stinging me

like I’ve swallowed an anemone

All that comes out is: “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

So I hide the little white pills

And the pain with the fears

I make sure to get back on time

From a night out

so she can finally go to sleep

I eat everything they make

Even when it tastes like silence

Because telling her would break her.

And breaking her

would ruin me.

But my partner is from a gentler place:

An open field under a light blue sky

With soft breezes,

plenty of bugs buzzing,

and parents who respect boundaries.

They’ve built a neat little wall

around themselves

and each child too

Like a honeycomb of bees

Dancing and talking

He doesn’t know

What it means to feel a sting

not from an enemy

but from family

And yearn for that sting

A familiar sting that feels like home.

How can I build a wall between us

when I grew inside her body,

ate what she ate,

breathed what she breathed?

Even here, when I’m making honey,

inside the walls of my own honeycomb

the sea lives in me.

And my skin,

still,

longs for the anemone.