{ the sweetest bee makes the thickest honey. }


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Your Fingernails
by Dorothea Lasky

Your fingernails are here.
Your fingernails are here
And you are dead.
Will you need them?
Would you
Like me to send them?
Would you like me
To give them to my friend
Who would then give them to you?
Your dead body tastes bitter
In my mouth.  Your dead skin
Is on my skin.  Your rotted celery
Is locked to the freezer drawer.
Your words ring out like bees in my chest.
My belly is uninhabitable.
The landscape on the horizon
Is the one chance I have not missed.
In January the daisies bloom
On my baseboard.  I have thrown
Your rotted flesh on the floor.

I have thrown up your dead roses and
They are sprinkling everywhere with my brine.
Laura is here.  She is a unicorn.
Get on my back, she says.
Get on my back and there are presidents
Beyond the dawn.  There is one chance
To get to the Presidents.  The white haired
Presidents, they are sticky to my touch and
Their mustaches surprise the sun.
There is one chance to the obscure presidents,
To the unseen presidents, there is one chance
My face burned black
My eyes burned out to sockets
The presidents all coming to me
And taking care of my worn out body.
And taking care of me, their soft chests
Like a soft wood mixed together on the whitish sun.
Their soft chests on my eyes are fixed
On the one spot that is the habit of their chests.
You are dead, but I live on.
I live on. I live on.
My hair is burned out like a bee’s flower
Its white halo is a prince in another world.
Can you see, my heart is a prince in another world.




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