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
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