Papa, you tailor your trousers with spider silk.
So many bottled nectars on bronze carts
flank your marble table, pour down
the slender throats of your petal-gowned women.

Papa, I am a stemless apple.

Papa, no ice and alcohol
could help me drizzle a glass.

Papa, you open my skull with an Alaskan blade.
So many blossoms crammed there,
Papa, and they will fly out in the perfumed,
string-quartet wind and I will be
a dark bowl of bone.

Papa, there is pollen on your hand.
That hum is not your pale-haired companion.
Papa, the bees are coming.

Becky Nicole James

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Becky Nicole James holds an MFA from Queens University. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in many publications including MARGIE, Echo Ink Review, Illumen, and Moon City Review.

Artwork: Natalia Drepina
Website: https://www.deviantart.com/nataliadrepina

30 Jun This entry was published on June 30, 2022 at 12:09 am and is filed under 51 (June 2022), Current Issue, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.