Attachment Sites

 

by Jennifer Lothrigel

 

My hips

are a clandestine mourning ritual

where all the women are wearing black,

holding each other tenderly in a circle.

The bees have left their bodies here.

All their dances

have become bone statues

for loyal flower worship.

I remember salted spine,

how a sun-drenched surface

is felt at the depths,

though unseen.