Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Issue Nineteen
Spring 2009
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Brood Comb
Lois P. Jones

A hive is no place to be born.

This thin catacomb of worlds,
its wax bordering my thoughts;
the wallpaper of the poor—bees

and bees of us sticky in the dark.
I wish to confess. I’ve been used
for less. For opening my mouth

when I hum, my face speckled
like a glitter bug, buried to my knees
in pollen, arms gathering gold

before a man stirs his hand
in the honeypot  For the moment
I dream my feet bare

against the pink palm of the flower.
No one will see me spill, my sack so full
dew splatters on the petal’s edge.

This hive is twelve stories high,
I can’t fly down. “Save your wings
you said. And I’ve saved them

long enough. Folded them away
next to the tins and jars—the good
for nothings I’ve managed to collect.

About Lois P. Jones

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