beekeeping (After Sylvia Plath)

beekeeping
after Sylvia Plath

When I am dead please
fill me with honey. Steal
the labor of a thousand
insects, wings like slivers
of church windows. Let

them make of me a hexagonal
wonder, a world of six
cornered rooms. Bees
will flock to me like flower,
honeysuckle or milkweed,

the seeded fluff no longer
the herald of winter. I’ll be
a body built of oval onyx
eyes, pollen-yellow fuzz,
a torso to fit a thimble.

This skull I once lived
in, a new vacancy, will make
fine chambers for the queen:
sinus skylight, toothy
xylophone. Let my empty
head be a dance hall,

domed ceiling full thick
of golden light. My mother
poet will come, then, sticky-
fingered honey-lover, ready
to hold her mouth to me,
to take the whole harvest.

camping with pup

wake to the sound of animal
fur on nylon: a small critter
brushing gently against
the tent. the low hum
of growl in my dog’s
throat, her body pressed
tight to mine in our sleeping
bag, so tight for a moment
I thought it was me
growling. it is no secret
anyone can turn animal
in the night, out here
it is every beast
for herself. it’s mid-month
bright but not enough
for my dull people eyes
to catch the shape
of what creature noses
my hiking boots.
the moon dangles
on it’s string, so directly
above my portable home
that the animal casts
no shadow against the fly,
no clues to the shape
of it’s torso, the sharpness
of it’s claws. the dog’s hum
deepens to far-away-
avalanche, then stops.
the silence meant to warn
me or the animal, I am not
sure. the creature scuffles
into action: autumn
is a difficult time to travel
silently and the leaves
are a hundred dry hands
touching. the sounds
are swallowed by distance
and the dark’s other small
stirrings. the dog rests
her head on crossed
paws, pleased at a good
night’s work. If I dreamed,
I would dream of being
a creature with so much
mouth, such long teeth.

rain race

leaving the restaurant we find ourselves
caught in the cold blast of movie-rain,
the kind of downpour that is a thousand ropes
connecting earth to sky. you are hell bent
on not getting wet and I refuse
to get wet alone. the car is four blocks away
so we run: you with your coat wrapped
like a blanket over your head, arms
like pistons, your pants darkening
in rivers up your legs. you have always
been faster than me but once
you were kinder. now, we run along
the unmarked border between love
and whatever end awaits us otherwise.
I chase after the momentary dams
of your feet, watching your heels rise
and fall like a fair ride growing small
in the distance. the streetlights float
atop the concrete like dozens of perfectly
spaced moons, pale faces just below
the surface. I imagine the street might open
like an ocean, the smooth dark asphalt
turned sea, deep and without
warning. that one moment I’d be running
through heavy ribbons of rain
and the next I’d be settling in the black
of ocean floor, perfect and unreachable
as shipwreck. instead, the concrete
proves solid beneath my feet. I find you
already in the passenger seat, jacket
stripped and panting, your clothes
as dark as the pavement, your skin
another light source. the inside of your
arm, dripping and white as tusk, the veins
like blue fish, exploring the parts of you
where I am no longer welcome.

haibun for obachan

two tiny Okinawan sisters in muumuus push eighty at a card table on the big island, drink half-glasses of bad wine and talk kumejima: spiral shells, as big as a baby, that ani pulled from the ocean floor, sake and drunk father too unsteady to make the cliff-side walk home alone. they use the names of those both loved & dead sparingly, do not mention the absence. there is too little time to visit all the mind’s graves. tipsy from drink and the pleasure of togetherness again, nearly two decades gone, they laugh at the new world’s bizarreries: dr. oz listing beni-imo, the small purple potato of Okinawa, as one of the year’s best superfoods. my obachan tells Sumiko about finding beni-imo in heaps at the grocery store in Junction City, Kansas. her utter disbelief. they must have sprouted arms and swum across the ocean. how else would they get to America? potatoes that can swim! certainly a super food. they break into near silent laughter, shielding their mouths with their hands, embarrassed at the looseness of their joy. my obachan speaks in spliced sentences. sworn off her childhood language for most of a life, sometimes she digs through a vocabulary too small in both languages and comes up empty. her fingers rummage through the air, find nothing but the hills and grooves of sumiko’s own palms.

two sisters clasp hands.
knowing passes between them
like a summer rain.

listening to Coltrane while watching you play video games

it has been the year of jazz
in darkness. I cut my hand
on something I couldn’t see,
barely believed the blood was mine.
wrapped the flesh too thick
in gauze and tape,
made my fist a tool useless for loving
now everything tastes like copper.
I drink ice and ice until my mouth
becomes too cold for tasting.
half your face shadowed screen blue,
your pupils scuttle back and forth
like trapped bugs. a saxophone solo climbs
over the sound of pixel swords
clashing but you won’t be outdone,
yelling at your declining lives,
the insincerity of animated death.
I listen for the reliable high
hat’s sharp shush in the black.
a small piece of unshifting ground.
it is easier to love each other if we can’t see
what body we’re stuck with
though I do miss the strange ticks
of your mouth: your lips folding into petals
your tongue skimming the cusp
of mustache your teeth grinding like stones
under the low throb of the bass.
we buy plants together knowing
they’ll die unceremoniously
in this windowless room, spend
finite money on philodendron
silk leafed, doomed from the start.
their heart-leaves sound
like the soft crunch of beetles
beneath bare feet, honest
and final with their end. we discover
so many house plants
are poisonous to our dogs
but it takes precious time
to learn this

what’s lost

self-diagnosis to empty bathroom:
knots of the self grown wild, body riddled
with bullets made of flesh. brightly tiled tomb
for sorry organs made victim, whittled

down by the frantic brain, anxieties
turned wound. it began in the skull, that dried
gourd, noisy maraca. an irony:
imagined seeds bring real fruit, body abides

the mind. hypochondriac’s inventiveness—
the headache slides down, explores the chest, limbs
like a slug. wet and heavy. this abscess
eats all language, all the mind’s precious hymns.

it comes without context, no one to blame
for this sadness that offers no other name.

writing recipe

it’s a mission of place—finding the best bench, booth, corner
of a coffee shop—and it is usually a coffee shop, the low music
of conversation with the occasional staccato of laughter, an
unexpected meeting, a dropped glass. where it is acceptable
to caffeinate to the point of pleasure. I order a four
shot latte and the barista grins, asks if I’m alright. I lie, say
I will be once I get the latte. the baristas’ hands move across
the countertops with the kind of practiced comfort that comes
with months of motion. my own hands vibrate just a little,
a familiar always un-smoothed discomfort, and I open
notebooks around me: a clearly unreasonable
number of bound pages—inside this excess, I can breathe
long enough to think—sometimes packed with tiny, neat
lines of text, sometimes with the monstrous, looping cursive
of internal disorder. it is so hard to keep the mind tidy.

I find myself anywhere with enough people that I can stare,
linger too long on a single person, try to remember as much
as possible. live, for a moment, their lives as I imagine them:
everyone either oblivious or terrified, imagining their own body
naked, either next to or against every other nearby body,
remembering numbers seen recently or the last time they leaned in
to a hand on the base of their spine. everyone on some cusp
of crisis drinking bitter bean-water because it makes them happy
or at least productive. maybe, hopefully, there is also someone
just drinking over-sugared decaf, reveling in the morning’s
thick honey-light. I, too, imagine my body in relief
against the wall of others, what my morning might have seen
if I had awoken next to the crisp-suited man tucked in the corner,
his impossibly thin laptop illuminated and silent; if I was sitting
just down the street, in the shade of a primly named tree
in centennial park, everything I own packed into the square feet
surrounding me. my body ends where my body ends but I
don’t. I am wild on other lives—the taste of new
mouths, the strange drape of unfamiliar cloth. I imagine someone
looking at me, studying with the same hesitant curiosity, each
our own quiet exhibition. we have made displays of ourselves,
humans behind glass. I press my face against what divides us.