The Fruit’s Nectar

She bites. The fruit’s nectar trickles down her hand, down her forearm, dripping to the ground like rain at the bend of her elbow.

It infiltrates the soil with betrayal, pride, disbelief. The earth becomes contaminated.

Perfection is obsolete. Clarity is obsolete.

Clouds of grey begin to obscure the new expanse of her mind.

“What’s my origin? Who’s my god? Whose hands created the intricacies of this universe?”

The questions consume her, but her questions are finite. Her knowledge is finite. She can not question the hidden secrets in the abyss of the earth.

A docile bird lies helpless on the ground, vulnerable to an overpowering presence. Death has arrived. She awaits death to silence the voices in her head.

“What’s my purpose? Where’s my home? For whom do my feet leave imprints on the contaminated soil?”

Her chest moves to a steady rhythm. Inhale. Exhale.

Life remains within her.

But her hands.

Her hands are sticky.

Sticky with nectar.

The taste of the fruit lingers in her mouth reminding her that deceit is within her heart.

A stranger on a land that does not give her identity.

“Where is my home?”

Her hands are sticky.

Sticky with nectar.

Sticky like honey.


Milk and honey.

A land flowing with milk and honey. The promise. Her origin.

“How can I wash away the fruit’s nectar? Rid me of the fruit’s nectar.”

She immerses her hands into the river. The river in a land flowing with milk and honey.

The voices begin to silence. The grey clouds begin to disperse.

Her past, her present, her future collide.


Her hands are sticky.

Sticky with honey.

“You are my God. You are my home.”

“He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey;” – Deuteronomy‬ ‭26:9‬ ‭

Tati ❤️