Aubade in the Apiary

In the gabled room of your uncle’s house, 
I left you sleeping, left you 
before your alarm could sound, before 
the white gravy could thicken in the pot 
and went side-stepping through the linens 
hanging like a history of honeysuckle. 
 
Beyond the screen-porch, beyond 
the indifference of dirt, I returned 
to the rows of white boxes—a mini mill 
town of clapboard houses thrumming. 
 
I made a fist and shoved it in my mouth 
to shape a scream. I made a fist 
and shoved it in my stomach to shape. 
 
The night before, you laid me down 
in the wheated ryegrass, in the heavy heat 
of Carolina. I think you wanted to show me 
something undeniable, that slow expansion, 
the humble roar of instancy. 
 
And between the boxes, 
each for different reasons, we added 
to the whipping of a thousand wings.