Allergic

Allergic

My mother, covered in bees. Skin swarming intothe one sad twine a road seems from this distance,the fabric smokeless winter one can bend

to see the question break, the zero, the stalkwhere it grows in the blood with the rhythm of loverswho have nothing to lose, the cracked, inexpensive

wristwatch crystal of each wing working, a vastcollection of spectacles. She keeps still undertheir dried groves, their redecorated, stemless lilies

and November's velvet cords. Her lips hisses,a spill of starved machines, her adrenaline lips,her barbed wire lips, in her one eye gravel

willowing, fracture, fronds of singe. The hourslike twelve tarnished, interior birds. Countlessspores. Intravenous. My mother is covered in bees.