Undercover Christians, Part II
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#FridayPoetry: The Open Door

BROOM OF ANGER thumb

 

The Open Door

 

You collect the dead bees 

in my studio, pinching delicate wings 

between thumb and forefinger, 

placing each still pantomime 

on the window ledge. 

 

They come in through the open door 

on warm days 

but stubbornly nudge fuzzy heads 

against the skylight glass, 

pressing, probing for a way out, 

finding none.

 

They don’t see that freedom is easy:

Just fly back through the open door. 

 

One died clinging to the curtain. 

It looked alive; you jumped 

when it fell at your touch. 

A honeybee, pockets of golden pollen 

saddlebagged at its sides. 

You set it next to the yellow jacket 

whose antennae have already dried 

in curls around its head. 

 

We find them buzzing

against the glass, 

wild blue yonder 

just out of reach. 

 

I pop screens, 

coax them through the window. 

You scoop them with a water glass, 

carry them through the open door.

 

This poem appears in my collection, Broom of Anger

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