Fist

His fist curled like
an unbloomed crocus
around a tiny bee—
tiny hate—
clinging to its center,
its wings
blaming God
for isolation—
Tongue tongue. Tongue
tongue. It brushes
against his veins,
bruises. Tired
of licking—dust
in the lungs, moist
saffron. He swallows
the bee; I swallow
myself. Both stick
to the throat
of the crocus. She pardons
the pain, blaming
us for misunderstanding;
holding her petals
like bridges
drawn,
refusing to open.
To breathe.
I panic for breath.
He curls his earlobes,
pants. Burns an army
of wings behind him,
loves the dance.
Enters the crocus
through a petal’s
charred remains,
begins buzzing—does
everything he can
to stop.