Do not brush the pollen
from your skirts
Lilly Franks

You dance with violence
in my orchard
a branch rips your blouse
and your breast is exposed
the bees feed on your nectar

You name one of these bees
Vivid Princess
and tell her stories
of a Bee-Wolf

Who lives in a dovecote
and powders the short birds
with a light blue dust

These are the crystal doves

 

I am writing this poem by candlelight
without a pen
you sit in a thorn-chair
watching me

You dip your finger
in the boiling wax
and sketch a comet
in the night sky

This visitor will not pass again
you tell me
I know that you are lying
as comets always return

The thorn-chair
becomes soaked in your blood
and you begin to fade
as I write

I summon a dove
which lands on your shallow wrist
it pulls you clear
of the thorn-chair

The dove is called
Louise of the Skies
even though it cannot fly

You teach the dove this art
and together chase
the wax comet you created

You have left this poem
I know that you will return

 

Flying high above the garden
I am seeking a place to rest
but there are none

My fear is that my strength
will despair and that I will be carried away
on the restless winds

Far below a rose takes pity on me
and offers me its petals

I land but am soon intoxicated
by its benign perfume

I see you for an instant
in the sweet canals
of my pleasure

You smile and hand me
the smoking pipe
of your dreams

Using the redundant ash
I write your name
on every surface

My host becomes angry
and expels me
into the garden

Where I brush
the coarse pollen
from your swollen skirts