My mother was like the bees

My mother was like the bees

By Jeanne Wagner

My mother was like the bees
because she needed a lavish taste
on her tongue,
a daily tipple of amber and gold
to waft her into the sky,
a soluble heat trickling down her throat.
Who could blame her
for starting out each morning
with a swig of something furious
in her belly, for days
when she dressed in flashy lame?
leggings like a starlet,
for wriggling and dancing a little madly,
her crazy reels and her rumbas,
for coming home wobbly
with a flicker of clover’s inflorescence
still clinging to her clothes,
enough to light the darkness
of a pitch-black hive.

1 thought on “My mother was like the bees

  1. Jeanne Wagner’s fluctuating enlightening poem succeeds in
    its uneasy reality of her self consciousness flaccidity in
    a pattern of her own nature in a modernity of uncertainty.

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