a life creative
she placed them so high above her tree line
that when she tended to their feet down in the forest loam
her antennae snagged the low slung branches
the half-light made her believe
and she ill-read tattooed there
laureate words hummed into an inchoate breeze
don’t ever think of the human voice
or the buzz beyond there
for when she moved higher
turned, pressed the back of her head to their knees
instead of the view over the tree crowns she
looked up to below their chin
to that soft hollow that dips with every withheld yawn,
well, her truths
dribbled like a bee over the bow of her bottom lip
overwintered, free and,
expected the honey that comes
from the hard hive of candour
yet the bee had pilfered her tongue
wore it away, warmed
left her its language as downpayment
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