by Shivani Sivagurunathan
Bees froth above the surface, their ancient porridge in-made, a sign they are to crack out of stripes, pearl shut-ins, the mono- diurnal churn and flit.
Two bees, or are there ten? You count, re-name, every kiss is a doubt of bees, rabid roadside dogs they are, angular in the sunlight from my womb, phosphorous, decent light for their curdle, albumen, epileptical knowledge- when do ceilings drip confessional bees, perhaps dying, perhaps soldiers?
These days. To look up is to ponder the spectrum of bloat and ash, swoop and soar, lumps of their zeal, and forever now, we shan’t return home where the metal kettle waits to mimic a typhoon, the stand fan the kettle’s accomplice, no more while above us birth licks the encasement of insects.
All long night they threaten to stop.
We slip into touch, between the imperfect harmonies scattered in our air, we meet them, the bearers of voyaging milk, piqued. |