The moment you tell me you want a simpler life

 

by Christine Pacyk

 

 

I catch myself holding

my breath again

& the wing-quicken

flutters within my lungs,                                     

two suspended sacks

of drone and your voice.

The words I can’t

(won’t) say are failed flight,

bees batting

against my ribs

without lift, without rise.

I close my eyes, exhale,

& seal each unspoken syllable

in wax hexagonal chambers

& fill my limbs,

my tongue with quivering

comb. How long until I am

the furred lip of flower,

pollen spiraling in sunlight

through an open window?

Zephyr turned mistral?

A flurry of notes we sense

but cannot hear?