black

i actually did kill bees one summer as a kid. this poem grew out of that memory.

i spent a whole summer
murdering bees
not for the secret of honey
but the sharp truth of stings
a red-shovel executioner
holding hot plastic
and cold unforgiveness
to the bright teeth of summer
an endless row of white lies
filled with little twitching deaths
little guilty hands
little silver wings
stilled and stained
like church glass
buried near a hard
metal playground

do not blame me for this

i have long since forgotten
the soft need of flowers
they turn their pale colors toward me
bleed
and i am left
with the white of all things

i no longer believe
in the honesty of sugar
the hope of honey
or the kindness of cream

sweet dreams
sweet dreams

that's what the sandman said
before it all
went

black









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