Your Poetry Dot Com - Not Resolving the Solstices

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZL8DrQebKKk

Either way, the yellow jackets are rubbing their butts on the tongues
of the flowers of the months of your life and I refuse
to put my mouth where something as adorable as a bee-butt has been.
So no, I will not kiss the flowers but you could convince me
to have sex with them. Forgive my good spirits.
It is through times like this that this we cannot afford to be kind.
Not even to the bees. Not even to the flowers. Not even to a natural order
that invented honey. In May, the wings of the bees are sand and light
like baked sugar. The flowers are crawling with window panes of sweets.
They are like rock candy. And oh, you sing to me
and your laughter is a sudden lemon tree. The lemon falls, the lion is in bloom.
The first lion died and from its carcass, the maggots. And from the maggots
of the lion's carcass, the bees. And from the bees, the flowers.
And the processes involved in becoming a hummingbird
were written by a hummingbird and so they were written too quickly to be legible.
If not Spring, we’ll Autumn, which is fine: You prefer the months of debris.
The months of robbery and of purple twilight. Of leaves that are sun in glasses of red wine.
The grown women of the gourds. The apples, their meat and the rolling of your tongue,
your gums bleeding into the body of the apple, the gypsy apple,
where is it to be found? You are there, too beautiful to be considered.
I don't mean that. I'm not sexist, my mother was a woman.
I am told that her mother was as well, but I wasn't there. Besides,
I know plenty of women and many of them hate women. Besides,
I know plenty of men and many of them hate men. I know plenty.
I know lack. I, no, lack not a thing. No, no, no, I say: bless this world
for having parted its labia and let me free. In a mood this expansive
I lean from my narrow window and think of the other things I will have to say.
Or I cross my arms and slouch in my seat and rolodex through each word
I have to trust just to stay alive. You know June from around the corner.
You know how important it is to think of her. She is kind,
so often she is reduced to dignity. “I concede,” I say to her,
“I have thought of my parents making love, and I have been reasonably pleased.”
She responds: “If I could go back and stand in on any moment
in which my family had been kind to each other, I would
and I would riot in the manner a beggar riots.” My friends,
my soul is an eel in the river. It hides in its cave and then
praise be to this movement that sends me, electric, toward
April, September, May, October; I know I should prefer to be still, but
I continue to list. I waste my time, fine, I praise to praise—
I let my throat chill and I pour my cold river against the mud of your lips.

This poem is Copyright ยฉ danajaye