Bloomsbury Bee; Virginia

by piningforest

She lands on a letter dated the twenty second, the birth date of the writer, which writer?
me or her
scribbled on the right

of the page, a postal divination
sent with dead skin and trees
on a small letter from her, the helpless creature one
a letter before the death of the patriarchy
a home
that’s hers as much as the balding
her bricks and water dissolve
but there’s always Helpless Creature
Incarnation, deformation of the bones of Bloomsbury Perhaps.
She likes you, she walks across the spine
of your book, stroking her antenna between the words Your words, her nectar, or an old memory of Bloomsbury Perhaps.
She treks the peaks of the individual letters
Reaches the mountain top and does it all again,
she has landed on something familiar, something
a home
shared between the species,
holding hands with the ages
Something that spins in the background,
falling through our fingers
Something
That we feel only when we’re half asleep,
half awake
Spinning with our fingers reached out
It’s as if it doesn’t matter that she isn’t a bee at all
A wasp tip toes on your prose, Helpless Creature.
A betrayal of a poem and
the ‘female of the species
is deadlier than the male.’