Deep White

Demons sleep in the deep white,
a place to rest while
laundry drowns without ultimatum,
while dismembered chickens
swell in heat – sticking to
bits of parsley that grew this year.

People expire faster than milk.
If it isn’t there taste, it’s their
noises or gestures
or lack of reflection.

Kids are running off to school,
I leave the bread in the toaster.
One more day, slice open the demon,
crawl inside

guilt grows off walls
shames eats at intestines
all the people go, go, go
off to let me sleep in the deep
white.

THE LAUGH OF THE BEES

Swarming in with poisoned tips tucked
under innocence,
Nature’s vengeance dancing from
flower to flower,

no matter the color,
or the size,
or shape.

They are the thieves of each unique
fragrance,
and I wonder,

Do they watch for the tulip to open toward the warmth of the sun?
Do they wait for a rose to display her heart proudly?
Do they time each moment precisely
for attack?

The light of the sun is unconditional;
food for the flowers,
heat for the thieves,

and on those magical days,
when I am the Bells of Ireland,
exposed,
hungry for the warmth of my Sun,

they swarm in and attack!