Collective Unrest

 

Insects of War

January 9, 2019

Do you remember being small and singing
that bringing home a baby bumble bee
would make my mommy proud of me?
But when the two tallest roses in our meadow were plucked
the bee was squashed,
it’s warm, yellow fuzz wiped off our hands.
Our hair was buzzed, and like a swarm
we were sent overseas, our stingers in our grip.
Above us the drones fly in formation to strike.
The pheromones of fuel and the fallen are strong as we comb the desert.
The honey we produce sticks red in the sand.
As a hive mind, we try to feel the pride that we sang of in our youth.
But a taste of sour nectar still lingers in our mouths.

 

*Originally published in The Sandy River Review

 

Gail Bello is a former co-editor of the online literary magazine The River and placed third in the 2018 Plunkett Poetry Festival contest. She writes fiction, poetry and plays, her work has been published in The Sandy River Review, Ripple Feminist Zine, Water Soup, Turnpike Magazine, Bonnie’s Crew and Pussy Magic. She is thrilled and honored to be published in Collective Unrest. Follow her on Twitter @AquajadeGail.

Please follow and like us:
error
In category:
Newer Post

I don't know what to do

The limit of color is a vacuum sealed secret. The lighter the pigment, the darker the past actions, or so it seems. The skin reflects the opposite angles of these better angels we try To nurture in the cracked spines…
Read
Older Post

They Ask Us

They ask us to be temples. Bodies gilded, floral, wrapped. Bodies holy and kept. Made for the mouths of praying men. Wholly preyed bodies. They ask us to be temples, not goddesses.   *First Published: Calamus Journal, Issue Five, April…
Read
Random Post

Flying Home From Indiana After Driving Past the KKK House in Irvington

I want to tell you it’s comforting to cry your eyes out on an airplane because the jet turbines to your left and the raindrops beating against the window make your tears sound faraway, but I feel like a birthday…
Read
Random Post

Thoughts & Prayers

Dear mother of solider number x, I know you kissed your boy good night, his face soft and yielding, woke up to a scraggly beard before you knew it, his age and yours numbers charted against a wall, expected and…
Read
Random Post

Witch's Brew

And there it is again--   silky voice of children’s lullabies   she wields in meetings of wits   A New England beauty replete with the grace and poise white privilege breeds   Her blade of honeyed words slices so sharp I…
Read
Random Post

Seventy-First & Everybody Else

for Harith Augustus My heart thuds the panic of a death sentence kicking it into view, policeman on my television flooding streets they call problems, their batons bludgeons cudgeling bloody people screaming for their lives, another neighbor toppled early to…
Read