I watched the bees pollinate.
Like a group of tiny black racecars flitting
between the pastel purple bulbs.
I felt my skin
crawl as I listened to their harmonious humming
and yet
I couldn't take my eyes off them -
the way they zipped through the lavender
stems, never colliding with each other gripped
me like a whirl of spring.

I lay back and I thought of you

so oddly beautiful *but beautiful
nonetheless.

Gaping;
I can see my soft underlayer
like gooey egg whites stretching
between two skin walls.

Thick roads of red
at my wrists reaching
closer to the highway
lit to the clouds, warmed by other drivers

but the oil is low
and the gas is running out.

I watched the wind drift through your hair as we chainsmoked
like we used to when we were sixteen. Mascara left
my cheeks damp and yours stained to the chin.

This was the closest I knew we would ever get
to be again, but with arms brushing slightly and the moon
streaking through the blinds onto the rug we once lay
on together - I felt maybe you could love me
once more.

You slipped
your wedding ring away
from the tip of your finger.
Your skin glowing
beneath the soft
light of the candles
I had treasure-mapped
around the bathtub.

You left
your dress on the floor
in a pool of paisley and whimpered
as the water of jasmine
and shea ballooned your inner
thighs into a deep
coral.

I touched
your pale shoulder, ripened
with freckles and held it
like I was stopping a finch
from flying away. You
sharpened beneath my hand;
your *******
the hairs on your arms.
It was a relief until
I couldn't decide whether it was happiness
or fear.

The day is damp and quiet as I'd noted it usually is
at this time. My brown linen served purpose
of warming me from the wind that hushed
the house but I am leaving his mild comfort
for another.
The truth of the mirror shows my milky feathers
that I'd left on my face from sad infancy.

The kettle wails in an octave of steam and brass
and milk sloshes coolly into its capsule, fault
from my shaking hands - an impressive chip in one glass.
I watch London spin its television reruns
on the other side of the pane and challenge a stray cat
to a staring competition. Chewed ear and licked fur.

Across the lawns creeps the sure squint
of the rising sun and my tea is left unattended.
I begin to prepare
gathering towels from the cupboard, draping
them over my arm as though I am a huntsman.
The harsh material peppers my skin and I slap at it with disgust.
Like a bluebottle scuttling greedily
through the ***** hairs.
The trusted thickness works well as I cram
them against the slits in the doors.
Not even voices should seep through.

The arrow only
moves forward after it has
endured its restraint.