I do not dip my hands in wax
to smooth, to soothe over
the errors in judgment
my elbows clipped stern
and into place like a baby
out of tune, grand &
swept across a sidewalk
in the city.
The city, the urban
urbane city is only
a glow over hills
that could be coals
left over from the fire
we lit to burn away
the infected hives.
The last bee left
was the Queen Bee,
bereft with her brood.
Collapsed. Honey,
hand me a whiskey.
This farming the farm
is not for the weak-hearted.
-Dena Rash Guzman
to smooth, to soothe over
the errors in judgment
my elbows clipped stern
and into place like a baby
out of tune, grand &
swept across a sidewalk
in the city.
The city, the urban
urbane city is only
a glow over hills
that could be coals
left over from the fire
we lit to burn away
the infected hives.
The last bee left
was the Queen Bee,
bereft with her brood.
Collapsed. Honey,
hand me a whiskey.
This farming the farm
is not for the weak-hearted.
-Dena Rash Guzman
