Hive
       

In the night, fear's stepchild: all hail
the ticking brain. And ash in the fireplace
and in the stove. What am I doing with these
old-woman hands? They don't belong to me.

There was one perfect moment of détente
where you called me the love of your life
but you were stoned and possibly on pills.
Your touch, iambic, when we met
and the rest, sheeted mirrors and grief

Next door they're perpetually building a house
of schadenfreude and light. They're draping it
in butter-yellow paint. The bees will take up
residence. There's honey in the paint.

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Copyright © 2018 Melissa Stein All rights reserved
from Terrible blooms
Copper Canyon Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission