Bees

Painting by Susan Bee


BEES


Her backyard orange trees have the sounds
Of sapsuckers, piccolos, bluejays, flutes,
Oboes-the cerise coloratura of mocking birds,
The jungle tympanni of hummingbird wings.
The chains around my mind that alliterate
The rattle held over the cradle cannot be removed,
Either with hack saw or blow torch. No keys.
My brain wears in summer a wool convict suit.

The guardian angel who intruded and imposed
The jail sentence, like a Joycean artist pares
Its fingernails. His masterpiece toils.

Bees are born to buzz into corollas, become
Gold encircled, but my bees wear mitres, shake
Censers, their fuzzy feet encased in cement.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Lynx