Tell It To The Bees
Tell it to the bees. If you need an intermediary
between God’s golden spear and your own
Neuroses – tell it to the bees, the way
the adversary has stolen your dreams,
transfigured them into lower back pain.
They are no strangers to the crushing boot.
Tell it to the bees. The terror you see scrolling
down your screen, how it lessens the quality
of light you receive – that you’re once again sitting
at the kitchen writing a poem because
you don’t know what else to do.
Tell it to the bees. Before the day
digs its needles in your neck, when
your daughter is sitting barefoot on the counter,
eating the peaches, pears, and nectarines. Tell it
to the bees. The framework on fire, the slow collapse.
Tell it to the bees. They already know. Wintering
in the hollow stem of the dead sunflower. How many more?
Returning again to the tower of your life’s work.
The goodness. Tell it to the bees. Every spring is a chance
to restart. How many more? When suffering is met
with grace. When one sting rips you apart. Tell it to the bees.
Dead Hornets in a Cup of Gasoline
My neighbor recalls how
his daddy used to fry an egg
like you wouldn’t believe
as he pours gasoline into a solo cup
like a potion to suffocate the hornets
nesting in his shed.
I am ill-equipped for a life
of the body – trembling
before the overgrowth —
the questing tick,
the plunging fox,
the staggering oak
overtaken by kudzu.
I want to crunch my hand
into its curling bark.
I want to wear my decay as a shield.
My hands are however optimized
for turning valves and spigots,
brown tinted tap sputtering
onto a perfect acre of cabbage.
I am never made to see
the process of the slaw.
I have no ancient name
to be recalled in wild solitude.
An alien steps
through the portal
and sees its reflection
in an empty Pepsi bottle.
Nobody knows
how to do nothing
for themselves anymore
my neighbor says, returning
with hornet bodies like boba
bobbing in the sludge.
