My mother was like the bees
because she needed a lavish taste
on her tongue,
a daily tipple of amber and gold
to waft her into the sky,
a soluble heat trickling down her throat.
Who could blame her
for starting out each morning
with a swig of something furious
in her belly, for days
when she dressed in flashy lamé
leggings like a starlet,
for wriggling and dancing a little madly,
her crazy reels and her rumbas,
for coming home wobbly
with a flicker of clover’s inflorescence
still clinging to her clothes,
enough to light the darkness
of a pitch-black hive.
Doctor Frankenstein on Love
I gave him everything I love.
The high forehead,
which looks so endearing on babies,
on his face
became a frightening cliff-drop
and the vacant eyes,
with their hint of lethal hurt,
were the same cornflower-blue irises
from the beggared sockets
of the dead.
I thought we could live again,
that we would rise from unrequited
as only bodies carefully stitched
from remnants can.
But he lurches like an old film
and dreams in a language
not his own;
sometimes just the white amnesia
of a flower
makes him weep.