The Bumble Bees
(a response to Frank Gaspar’s The Lemons)
the sycamores and the skinny girls stalked on uptown trains, alone.
that everything is something trembling on the brink of something else.
Forget home and the soup mama made, smoothness in your
belly, sap like honey
outside a peeling paned window.
bees are offering us their consecration again.
are making us anxious, orbiting around our heads.
are making us think of consequence and coincidence, to remember them.
They are carved into our skin beside poetry, reduced to
represent our allegiance
chosen sentient life.
They have been copulating with the grasshoppers and
fireflies again, the wind heavy with
their pollens, they are more cloying than
they will ever know.
survive together. They are stupefying me with precise aerial intelligence and
they escalate into spiked green chambers, sucking nutrition from veins,
slamming treasures into secret striped
are trying to make me careless, vulnerable to enemies of my manageable cause.
don’t want to be distracted from their own invention.
are singing to us, how they return each season, bringing wisdom from
world, imagination is in the heart, the rest is memory, the
horrifying personal truth.
long will it be before we put on our mesh suits and protective work gloves?
long will I watch for bees and cower when I find them?
How long with the spring and the solitary skinny
girls, and something if not anything
suspicious and waiting with a freckled
nose pushed against the glass of a window, and the
scream of thehunted one who
just wants to go home?