BEES
DON’T YOU GO KILLING ALL THE BEES
Yesterday I stomped a WASP (no not my husband)
To death Then in a mid-life crisis rage (3/4 life crisis?)
beheaded the poor bastard OFF WITH HIS HEAD!
said The Red Poet Queen
Today Mr. Wasp is GONE! Every single shred even his
yellow-blonde head Now I sit on my rooftop tower where
a large man with BEER splashed across his tee stalks me
(see Insta pics +poem “SING” – July 28 +29th) As I ponder
the likelihood of wasp hive-mates returning in the night to
gather up his carcass
So will my tribe reclaim me? Every brittle bone +beauty mark
Every scar visible+invisible Superficial+mortal woundings have
left a map of deep crevices filled with $90 skin creams +chicken
schmaltz Will we collect the bones of mother+brother alike? As
we did with Lee’s? You won’t find a scrap of him nor the mattress
he died upon in our final condominium
Our mother hasn’t slept a wink on the replacement Even traded it for
a used one An octogenarian Princess+The Pea (this mattress is killing
me!.. a 5 year refrain..) Yet it would seem to me that the dust of my father
after his gathering up+burying over on Bathurst St. has travelled due west
To Woodbine where it reconfigures into a horseman’s ghost in front of the
Trifecta booth every day at 3
Brother’s in arms
Here’s to the gathering
__
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future
that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but
that’s no matter – tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out
our arms farther … And one fine morning – So we beat on,
boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
(The Great Gatsby F. Scott Fitzgerald 1925)
Summer 2017
songanddancegirl 