Honey-Dipped and Other Poems By Laci Hoyt
Honey-Dipped Mom, will you play with me? you asked, your voice honey-dipped, the beckoning of a young heart wanting to connect. Sure, in a minute, I said as if dishes or laundry or vacuuming carried any importance, as if cleanliness could replace connection. Later, I held your action figures in my hands. I made them move just as you said and you giggled that infectious laugh when I used poison ivy as a weapon. Mom, will you play with me? you asked, again and again, so many times. I can still hear your voice dripping with the sweet nectar of your plea. I could have said yes more often.
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