Bees froth above the surface,
their ancient porridge in-made, a
sign they are to crack out of
stripes, pearl shut-ins, the mono-
diurnal churn and flit.
Two bees, or are there ten?
You count, re-name,
every kiss is a doubt of bees,
rabid roadside dogs they are,
angular in the sunlight from
my womb,
phosphorous, decent light
for their curdle, albumen,
epileptical knowledge- when do
ceilings drip confessional bees,
perhaps dying, perhaps soldiers?
These days. To look up is to
ponder the spectrum of
bloat and ash, swoop and
soar, lumps of their zeal,
and forever now, we shan’t
return home where the
metal kettle waits
to mimic a typhoon, the stand
fan the kettle’s accomplice,
no more while above us
birth licks the encasement of insects.
All long night they threaten to
stop.
We slip into touch, between
the imperfect harmonies scattered
in our air,
we meet them, the bearers
of voyaging milk, piqued.
This piece was featured in “Cha: An Asian Literary Journal”, click here.