by Amy Silbergeld
home, there are two bees fucking in the air*
and I am reading about Melissa Huckabee who
raped a girl child with an instrument and
stuffed her girl body in a suitcase dead she was
dead I read about this on my work computer
already yesterday but last time they didn’t know
it was any more than a murder – anymore
than they knew Melissa meant honey
bee any more
than a murder sometimes whatever
something different than fear like
rich white girls who end up
sorts of suitcase packings
brown bagged eyes
don’t grow past been every girl bending every waist
not yet sashed do they not grow back
end up silent not accepting visitors sometimes
help those pretty white girls capable enough
of locked wards I am embarrassed by earnesty
conviction I am embarrassed by
confessional poetry again two bees are fucking and
I am burning on purpose in a flesh-tone bra nervous
with my laptop and a lawn chair I check up on the dead like
whose life did you want to end?
who are these honey bees buzzing in my bed? (and to think
her father was a bee keeper)
would you like to archive this
conversation?
send
*Hugh later tells me that the bees I saw weren’t fucking, because only the queen gets fucked. So the bees were “communicating” or something.
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