Bumblebees Are Made of Ash

Martha Silano (@marthasilano in Thrush Literary Journal)

The day is a dragonfly hovering in the Timothy. It could rain for months
before the sun goes down. An orange buoy bobs while a sparrow
sings through a wall. The world smells of cedar, skunk spray,
a sedge’s sharp edge. The cat’s ears clear their throats,
prepare to speak. Kinnell called it “the inexhaustible
freshness of the sea.” As if you could imitate
a preening cormorant. As if she’d said can’t
lean this way, but you heard can’t live,
destiny’s dangling web. A horse
82 miles from its barn while
your brain swings open
like a giant pink

Read more Poetry Posts
[Read more Poetry Posts]