Emelie Watkins ’20
The right time, but long distance My fingers are dancing like bees, grasping this water bottle while they can’t breathe. Could I, a crumb, find the air they need? Or am I stuck on the plate doomed for the drain? My demise, I presume, is far away. But it seems that I meet Death each passing day. While I play with the bees, she chases them away. I’ve walked past her and winked (did you just wink at me?). But she’s not really having it. I wrap my arms around me and crinkle the sides of my shirt. I hold her hands that constrict me. It’s tight, but I can squirm, it’s not that bad. Her gaze unsettles the bees. The bees in my heart keep me awake at night, but I let them work me freely to soothe the frostbitten pain in my right lung. I am their hive. Death evades my flirting. Maybe she has an allergy. But during the beeloving weather, I find a lily of the valley to show me that, perhaps, she is not the one for me. He is a flower, a boy who pushes my pillows into the form of hearts and balances me away from Death’s edge. He inspires a gentle pain that strangles my heart to the tune of his perfume. Our intimacy drips down my dreams. I hope that he catches my snores on the south wind in the coming season. From my sleeping mouth dribbles a current for him to follow. I await the dawn of our next meeting, where the bees and I wake to see him again.
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