The propitiate
There are two rows of box hives
And an alley between them
And sometimes around dusk when
The evening settles blue
And the fieldgrass whispers
In my place in this valley
I come to walk the length of it
And listen through my breathing
For the hum on either side
’Til the alleyway feels like
The Bardo and I’m a bridge
Because if I stretch myself
I can reach and just barely
Touch both sides of it at once.
There’s this buzz I can feel
Come into my fingertips
When I press them to the wood,
Should I set them gently there
And let them stay awhile,
And if I scrape its surface
With my fingernails or tap
Tenderly in petition
I receive an answering,
A hum louder than before
Then small footfalls on my skin
As each soft life finds a place
For itself upon my palm
Then beckons me to clutch.
Fire collects in my elbows
And the currents pool there
Before vibrating my arms
And shaking my shoulderblades
With the tender violence
Of a father come to rouse
Me from some unbridled dream
And I feel frequencies
Clashing at their peaks in me
And I hold my breath until
The tides inside me go slack
And settle in resonance
Somewhere soft within my chest
Or my heart or whichever
Muscles let me breathe deeply
And taste the chlorophyll
As it goes by on the breeze
And then I find the stillness,
But it’s just as quick to go.
Sometimes there’s a great horned thing
Gliding quietly above,
Spotting mice by the moonlight,
Casting shadows on the path;
Sometimes I turn to see it
And I pocket both my hands
With my arms pressed to my sides
So I might gain some comfort
From the burning coming back
And a semblance of defense.
Sometimes there’s a man like me
Further down the alleyway
With his fingers on the hives
And sometimes he smiles at me,
Looking over his shoulder
As he’s stung and stung again,
But mostly he stares ahead
As the shadows carry on
And I can see he trembles
As he leans into the night
And I know why he’s kneeling.