by Nicky Beer
In the yard, the wind hasn’t yet begun its nervous rearrangements
like a hand in a pocket jingling loose change; everything’s still
bound to the earth by its own thoughts. This season has returned
too many times to be an accident, always in the usual bright vest.
Jigging the front path again and again is the same robin,
coming close enough for me to see the song twitching up
the dense scales of his throat. He’s been insisting that
we’ll have a gorgeous clutch the color of pallid veins,
that I’ll doze on a throne of halved headlines and butcher
string. I tell him hush. That the neighbors are already talking.
There, the deliberate shadow of a large bee being cast
and recast in the shallows of morning light, and the movement
alone is enough to make me leave the porch’s shade and follow
it out and up into an implacable brightness, seize it
and feel its terrible answer pierce the inside of my mouth.
Nicky Beer is a PhD candidate at the University of Missouri-Columbia. She has been a poetry editor for Gulf Coast and Center, and her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Columbia, New Orleans Review, Notre Dame Review, Kenyon Review, and others. (5/2005)