I go on,
while the bees burrow
little wings roaring in my ears
I sit still,
thinking their sound
cire liver, bowel, stomach
and filter of lung
my chambers of heart,
sticky and dripping
with the salt of others,
nourish
what sought refuge in the caverns
pupa covered
a cigarette smoke stunned, mutilated
little queen emerges
5 comments:
Did you exhale on a hive?
The filter of lung, nice.
good golly.
no bees were injured in the making of this poem.
Bee hives and the order therein, are an interesting contrast to the emotional chaos that often orders my life (and maybe others feel that way too?). Yet we often manage to emerge from the order/chaos mutilated but still standing.
heh. nice "explication" of yr poem.
nice contrasts.
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