There’s something under the table

Amanda Killian

Sometimes eggs have to die with nothing inside
but their big yellow unformed faces, or a sneeze
of powder or blood pulled from outside 
of you. Moving slowly you find gravity

charging every angle of your body with here –
I am here. There is nothing to save
the past loving you with its own violence
pulling your skin to where it is now.

So precious you are in your scars. I do not 
want to sit on a hammer, the cold bulge 
of what is not mine when there are flowers
to fall back on in the rain, and even those

words can be released of a past I promise.
Flowers. Rain. Flowers, rain. Flowers rain
until they are estranged from their own
removed from what you have sewn 

in your memory to scar. You are not a child
anymore. Give your love to the swarm of bees 
under the table. They will keep and feed it on.
Groom yourself with the pollen’s paste 

on your forehead. Choose a life where flowers
and rain are just themselves, mulch
and never scar. What can scar that is entirely
given up to the after and again and spread.

A swarm of bees blind and full of the dye
of your desire – yellow and bright thick pasted
so when you pull your chair closer to eat 
your fingertips are blessed with a flower’s sex.