Hive To The Operators Again
I punched your number
into my phone so hard
I think that you heard the
thuds and dial tones.
As when you answered
after one sharp ring
you didn’t sound surprised
that I was calling.
I only whistled lullabies
and our song that we used
to slow dance to in our
compact box kitchen.
I still have the bruises from where my hip hit the stove time and time again.
You told me that I was still out of tune
and inevitably out of luck.
The rain knocked down my mailbox again
and you came round the next day to fix it.
I didn’t tell you that it was me who axed it.
I’ve begun to feel out of control: bees swarm in hives
around my busy head.
Am I the Queen Bee now? The largest one with four million maids and a joker.
Sometimes, when I think no one is watching I eat honey from a jar with a silver spoon.
And if I dance for strangers in underground clubs,
they hum and buzz like you never would.