We met again in the street where we last met. Neither of us could remember how long it had been. It was night again. You had aged a lot and I was a little younger than I had been. In one hand you had so many poppy seeds, the other hand was coated in honey. I tasted both. I told you I thought it was like the famous Celan poem: Mein Aug steigt hinab zum Geschlecht der Geliebten: wir sehen uns an, wir sagen uns Dunkles, wir lieben einander wie Mohn und Gedächtnis [My eye goes down to the loins of my lover, we stare at each other, we say dark things, we love each other like poppy and memory.] Maybe I had been dragged to this thought by the eating from your hand. The poem starts with that, not that you knew. You berated me. You told me I had it all wrong, that you had brought me everything sensuous: the night and the poppy and the honey. And all I could think of was this stupid poem. I was sorry that it had lodged there. It had lodged there with the memory of hamantaschen, purim sweets with poppy seeds and honey about which I had nothing to say. And anyway, you said, honey was memory made myth. Honey was a preservative, it stopped memory being explosive by forcing things to unnaturally endure. Honey was the enemy of transience. I asked about your age. Honey you said was a force of light. I told you that the poem wasn’t without sensuousness, that Celan wasn’t all deserted landscapes of death, without even flowers. I told you to listen to its rhythm, to its persistent amphibrachs. You were having none of it. We sat for a while in silence, your one hand full of poppy seeds and the other covered in honey.