Erin Lyndal Martin

The Lost Lunar Beekeeper

I am not like them
I keep bees on the moon

At night I dismantle
my favorite machines
making a guidebook

Their eaves
unzip the trench fever
a burial live as wool

Seas of tranquility, of
crises

what can a body
gain from hives
built above the sun?

Wintry lake, fecundity
fear, a drop in every
pocked hull of rock

Little heart, honey-pot
sateen pin-cushion
tiny like a footstool

The moon in summer
witnesses your scorn
brands you yeoman of something new

I wish a sleepy flower
would hush me
the speech of birds

The moon a map of haunted houses
carnivalesque. Cicadas in gauze click
like castanets. Stung hands and lily-feet
I was the bravest of the savages

I wish there were smoke
Then I could wake the bees

How I write you this
how you don’t write me back

Fool, the honey is mine
But so is the dark

Erin Lyndal Martin/ Ghost Ocean magazine

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