The insects are beginning to wake up

a bee-guard will be an absolute necessity:

Spinster’s Ink on the toaster. Mother’s headed for her final sleep.

Consult the magnetic words on our toaster:

“gratitude

possible.”

“Outsider”

says the wall

echoes the tunnel.

We go to the village for bee-guard

shoehorn.

Dark circumstances driven out, then back home.

We are alone: two women.

Nights

we wake

barnstorming   brainstorming.

We fishnet for gold grains:    What a luminous memory:

swimming with your child

during a thunder & lightning storm in high desert.

        And now we are old:

Mother is sinking, fearful as a hive filled with bees

And you and I feel

orphaned at the white pale:

like nobody’s child.

 

Lynn Strongin

If you've any comment on this poem, Lynn Strongin would be pleased to hear from you.