Raked over hot coals of discontent.
A dying worker bee struggles across the threshold,
trapped yet again inside the house.
Honey season's over, Darling.
Time ticks out the remaining moments.
"How does it feel to want, Baby?" she asks.
"Delicious," I lie.
A wanting woman may gather no moss
but she aches just the same—
A deep dark residue of shame from the
white hot glowing embers.
A gasp.
A breathless plea.
A slow burn.
A fine tuned instrument; discordant hum.
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A bone pot is a sacred vessel in the Chinese tradition, and used to house the bones of the dead after seven years of earth burial. This blog is the holding place for poetry, thoughts on environmental issues, and discussions of all flavors. Join in.
A bone pot is a sacred vessel in the Chinese tradition, and used to house the bones of the dead after seven years of earth burial. This blog is the holding place for poetry, thoughts on environmental issues, and discussions of all flavors. Join in.
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About Me
- Inanna
- Northern California, United States
- Author, syndicated columnist, environmentalist, poet, bee charmer, chicken wrangler, biodiesel grease monkey.
1 comment:
i LOVE being your muse for this one. You inspire me. This is lovely. Love the linkages to previous poems. Feels like a refrain, though careful -- it could develop into a tic. The worker bee image is so proletariat, like you, not like you; i am bound for my own salt mine today, but will endeavor to write tonight.
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