Garden of Bees
The narcissus grows past the towers. Eight gypsy sisters spread their wings in the garden. Their gold teeth are unnerving. Every single baby is asleep. They want a little money and I give them less. I'm charming and handsome. They take my pen. I buy the poem from the garden of bees for one euro. A touch on the arm. A mystery word. The sky has two faces. For reasons unaccountable my hand trembles. In Roman times if they were horrified of bees they kept it secret
Copyright © 2011 by Matthew Rohrer. Used with permission of the author.