(Note: I draw much of my inspiration from dreams, and recently I’ve been challenging myself to write prose as well as poetry.  This poem and the piece, The Vortex, are inspired by the same dream.)
A bee, caught
in a violent draught,
collides with woman
her body a salty
concrete wall
of frenzy, she is rigid,
obsessed, unspoken rage
emanating from her pores –
a gale force spiral, woman-made
vortex threatening the sanctity
of her contrived domesticity
Normally, she would swat at him –
is aware of the potential for venom
delivered via puncture – cannot pull
herself out of the vacuum of fixation
eyes riveted, hands locked on video
controls, breath shallow, heart pounding
a rabid diatribe of self – loathing:
useless woman,
irresponsible,
neglectful,
unworthy,
guilty,
fat
with each beat the tempest grows
perceptibly, the bee breaks free,
encircles the figure of a lone man
bent over a fragrant cup of brew,
is dismissed by a distracted swat
lazily careens upward, buzzing
past a sleeping child, and settling
on a sweet sticky cheek, startling
its owner, who lashes out then rises
unsteady legs toddling in search
of Momma! , the whine a catalyst,
piercing his mother’s mania –
her instincts now cat-like, body
pouncing past the insolent insect,
arms reaching towards pudgy limbs
thrusting forward into loosely
attached guard rails, now plunging
the bee surveilles the scene –
a final circuitous flight before
finding escape, the drone of his wings
a testament to the glory of being a bee.
(Image: www.flickr.com)
