honey, spice, and spirit

by Phaedra Saffron

My terrace is another land, of concrete and wild oranges. Ones not cultivated for eating. Too sour, too bitter. The cracked and bumpy pavement they grow from would scandalize you. A sooted pigeon hobbles by the cans across the street, while the vivid pink flowers on the vine attempt to engulf the iron rails.

I try to picture you here in your famous dark grey coat, your pomp and circumstance, like this church behind the orange trees that doesn’t belong yet rides on the blood of this land, forever fused on her spine.

The drink I’m sipping doesn’t help, all warm, cuddly and severely alcoholic. Gold coats my tongue, the essence of long forgotten gods. Reminds me I’m a heathen, who never got to know your taste. Would it be as sweet, love? A rose by any other name? Would it hit me like a brick, like this libation does? How fitting. It hides its potency in honey, as you hid your gruffness in polished posh.

Alas, who am I kidding? This sprawling fuck up of a city would overwhelm the shit out of you. You’d get drunk on her gilded and grimed history till you broke and cried uncle. Just like old times. You’d gush about her bleached marbles, yet choke on the ever-present aroma of teargas and exhaust fumes that permeate her crevices. No, my love, you’d never be able to take your eyes off her, but too guilty of a catholic to even take her to your bed.

Look, dearest! A snow white stray cat emerged from under a shiny automobile. There’s tons of them rummaging around this city’s veins. Under my terrace, I can spot four at a glance. I could spot you in a crowd of a thousand. What does this have to do with the cats? Nothing at all, I’m drunk and a sappy fuck and I still miss you. I told you, love, this shit is strong! You’d love it and regret it after. You’d gulp it down, like that first time we meandered orderly, clean streets. An age ago, in a land on the other point of this continent. One you would consider civil, I suppose.

This drink is honey, spice, and spirit. Nothing about it is ever civil. The first vial is history now, the second on its way. I shall drink it in your honor, your ever-loving memory. Serenaded by her speeding cars, her homeless men playing all manner of instruments for spare change.

I gaze over my terrace at her magnificent maleficence sprawled on a plate, as they say, hoping that we lived in a world where you’d share this drink with me. Even if you’d blame me for the hangover after. Blame me for it all, love, it’s on me.

I swear you’d like this drink. You’d gulp in down like you held me that last time. As if I was your saving grace. Odd, I could have sworn I was your hell. Or your Athens. Close enough, they’re both as hot in August.

Goodbye, my love. Your God is calling. The church bells ring the mass of the evening.

Photo of Paedra Saffron

BIO: Phaedra Saffron (they/them) is a Greek poet, writer, performer and musician, currently based in the Netherlands. Their poetry touches on raw villainized emotions through scattered visual forms and sensual staccato rhythms.
They attained a BA and a MA in Classical Music Performance at HKU Conservatory in Utrecht, a MA in Arts curated by the Global Leaders Institute. They followed writing workshops at the International Writers Collective in Amsterdam.
Their poem “Genteel Gash” was published by Querencia Press in their 2025 Autumn Anthology.
They are currently working on a fabulist, hypermodern, neuroqueer, experimental fantasy novel.