Lola Returns With this miracle ended, I miss most the nectar that saturated me. Long I’ve raged against all that isn’t nectar and all that I’ve mistaken for nectar. My world is now a ghost of honey that falls like a shadow from the nectar that shines though me, the nectar whose golden halo makes me disappear without dying, lets me disappear into the flow and folds of this nectar that bathes me until I emerge cleaned and perfumed with honey. I emerge from the world I knew and watch a new world emerge from the burden of miraculous nectar I’ve somehow placed on it. I emerge as a woman I don’t know, and I will emerge through veils and baffles my spirit will tangle against because my world is unkind to all who emerge into it. If I succeed, I will emerge as a tinge of honey in the daylight, then a strange glow of darker honey in the night, and then a memory will emerge of someone who had to disappear to make the old world disappear. How complicated. How easily this nectar will disappear and old urges and bitterness emerge if the new me can’t remember, when I disappear, the work it took to make my old life disappear forever in the nectar. I pray this moment to disappear so the new me won’t disappear. I try to sort out this challenge against the mirror logic of miracles, pit my new self against my old fears and weaknesses. I want to disappear into the sacramental honey that surrounds me here, to drown in this honey and leave no indentation in the face of the honey. I pray my reflection will disappear and light be wasted no more on me. This honey is its own light, this honey is a lantern from which golden lights emerge. This honey is a perfect food, a healing, this honey already replaces my memories with nectar, with new memories of a nectar that drowned a body, a room, in a world of honey. And the gates of death will collapse against the tide of this light, my history will fail against its flow. I cry out against my old life, curse it, but a pool of honey fills my mouth, drowns my tongue against its sweet pressure. I waver and lean against my bed, feel my will drain and disappear. I begin to lose my struggle against my weariness, the undertow flows against my heart’s desires. Helpless, I emerge into a light that isn’t honey. My senses emerge from the wonders they drank and they flutter against the sight of this room drained of its nectar. I am suddenly blind to the honey and nectar. Later, I’ll be surprised at times by the taste of nectar but can’t live in constant bliss against the buzzing in my mind. I’ll often sneak a spoon of honey and briefly let myself disappear and try to hide from myself until it’s time to again emerge.
This poem is from an unpublished collection titled The Ecstasy of St. Lola. They consider a young nun named Sister Lola who experiences a profound religious experience.
A poet, professor, and editor, Richard Ryal has worked in marketing and higher education. He stops for every poem he hasn’t read before, and no one can talk him out of doing that. His recent publications include Notre Dame Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, The South Florida Poetry Journal, and Survision.
Amethyst Review 