Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Nineteen Spring 2009 |
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 |