Poem 103

Complicated, the bond between hive and bee

hollow honeycomb hall-ed highway, hindering
despite rhythm and rite, it is the worker bee
droning downward, spinning spiral spindle wing.
Fraught the seamstress as she sews, hexagon
hill-falls encircling her kin. Again again as if 
for dreaming, whence they stop again begin… 
on tides of bus-i-ness come calling, 
wax wanderer whittling white emptiness in the walls
what more is there for cloning, honey homestead.
Without it she is just a bee… a single pinhead on 
the cornea, a miniature model, buzzing buzzing buzzing 
behind the glass. Look at this be, this one unsatisfied bee. 
And what of the hive. Without one single bee. Is still a hive
one humm quieter, one wing lighter, one mouth hungrier 
for nectar not cradled but discarded in the flower. 
The hive will survive, as will this bee. 
She, still an insect; the hive, still a factory. 
A hive manufacturing bees, bees manning the hive. 
Little felt the farewell of one needler…
unless the murmur takes flight… 
–ECW

Poem 102

on attempting to resign
from out the water a chill comes swiftly
clumsy, pull the buttons from their holes.
wrinkled fingers-numb-tug zippers, I am
shivering shivering shivering cold.
once wet, once the fibers have drunk
their full they bloat, heavy-sopping weight:
a responsibility bestowed by values, my
inclination to be decent outweighs comfort
but I am cold; the air a downy cashmere,
what creeping suspicion dons a lust…
nude and prickling; skin dries quickly
unburdened by cloth. I begin:
tearing away layered submission,
the seams stretching with every pinch
wringing handfuls from my limbs, twisting
elbow and shoulder to tease off sleeves;
unburden the pant-legs one knee at a time.
the zipper–sharp and frigid–a toothey razor
bargaining briskly against my palm.
pants gather stubborn about my ankles,
the misfortunate curve of feet idle my rush.
one for balance the other a rough shake.
undergarments rolled down wrinkling
popping suctions desperate to maintain contact…
after some negotiations, I am stripped – the air is keen.
as it should be, after all that time cloaked security
a barrier, however gailing once I took to my unveiling
textile trauma shocks the senses. I am still…
vulnerable still. silent still. acute my sensations,
naked but sturdy, bare but solid, simple yet standing
conquer not fear but embrace doubt. Resist the
urge to mask my body… let the evening wring me out.