Look, you’ve shot me nearly dead
but I can see sunrise. It’s a blanket
of guilt and not a boyfriend. I have
no car. Not even the girdle of moon
can reduce my spirit. I know it made
no sense until page one thousand,
but I made it me. This your gift.
Am I but a gift horse whose
mouth an apple was promised
neither bitten nor sinned? Taken
back to where I’m gone? Take
me back to where I’m taken.
Queen of the hive for a
hundred years and
nary a drone to
make butter.
