Honey Making as Secondary Activity

Photo from the “Places the Mail Took Me” series by Annette Marie Smith

“I am not,” the bee told me, “collecting nectar. Well not primarily.”
“Is it the pollen then that you are gathering, Apis, as you hover so close to me?”
“No, I am not spending my energies on pollen gathering.”
“Then what are you doing, flower-blur-sting, if not engaging in rituals that culminate in your honey-making-art?”
“I am listening,” Apis told me, “to the golden beating of each flower’s heart.”
— Annette Marie Smith

Sunday Things: Catalyst

Let your anger shine off of you like a well-earned sweat.
Let it oil your limbs for mighty endeavors
like that of hoisting sexism by its dirty neck
and throwing it like the piece of garbage it is
into the fire of purification.
Then take the ashes and give them to the restless sea
to mouth and gum over with constant chewing
and further breaking down and dispersing.
Let the fire-burned and sea-disintegrated ugly thing be so transformed
as to become a grain of sand, many grains of sand,
numberless grains of sand,
the likes of which could endlessly carpet a never-ending sea.
Let the grains of sand each become the impetus
for change in the hearts of the monsters
that lie all along the bottom of said seas.
These oysters shall be made to produce beauty
from the fine dust of your anger,
pearls of chafe and change that shine luminescently.
— Annette Marie Smith

That wolf on your calf was winking at me

and when the full moon showed up
he slipped off your leg and started following me
down the dark alley of dreams
lit up like a ballroom with star chandeliers
past all the closed doors leading to wishes
barred with all sorts of locks
past the dust bins and sewer grates
to my favorite fire escape.
He followed me up it
disturbing the flocks
of pigeons (thoughts unrealized).
He was silent as shadow
walked on feet padded for flight
so he easily met me
on the rooftop
where he bayed at the moon
and then to my surprise
set velvet pawed foot
to the old fashioned ship of the moon
and took to the skies
with me on his back
like he was some sort of wolf/horse
meant as my steed. — Annette Marie Smith