Meliponini

She's a shell, you know.

Some sort of fat humpty dumpty look a like

skin un-kissed by the warmth of the sun. She's never seen

what its like to allow the dimples to careen into deep valleys

whiten the glazed over eyes of youth in almost porcelain enamels

challenge the hurried hours in a curl of a moist lip.

who knows what enters the mind

at the middle of the playground

dust and dirt kicked up to the pressed starchiness

and itchiness of stockings. A reminder of delicate legs

and shapely hips, bursting out to enter adolescence but

pulled back in ribbons and plaits worn in her time.

they scream at her, you know.

some kind of words learned from their environment

where the mother is a bitch from handing the daddies their plates cold

the father is a motherfucker from a stain of red on a collar

the dog is a shitter from a pound where only mixed breeds die

and the child still lays in the womb as audio

obscenities blast auto-tune in its fetal positioned ears.

something about the swarming

reminds her of the beauty of bees.

she remembers the fuzzy delicateness of wings,

the instant glide buzz buzz buzzing around 

until she receives a memory of how

they sting

sticks and stones

will break my bones

but words will never hurt me.

She'll keep humming away. 

The reciprocity of bees.

it doesn't hurt, you know.

those words. Because a silly little nursery rhyme

formed on a playground will magically un-break that shell.

fix her up all brand new, like she never fell off the wall

and some handsome shining knight is waiting for her,

rose in hand because that's what all the books say. 

they say. 

she inhales trying to remember the scent but can't.

who really cares about the velvet of the rose

when it has thorns? its cadence of two lovers dancing

between romance and forgiveness is only given in the 

gift of a rose. Besides, her favorite flower is the gerber daisy.

Yes, all will be better now.

Imagination has a way of doing that. The brain will

trick me into the self belief that I just wasn't stung

and was given honey instead. That I will remember its oozing

sweetness of nectar gliding down my throat

a treat to be given on a warm summer day.

she's a shell, you know.

beaten to death by invisible 

sticks

stones with glass windows

and no apparent door to open wide

and pretty soon

all that's left are words

fired back in the reciprocity

of bees.

-b.r.rivera

#30in30

5 of 30, April 2012