Poetry

When my daughter drizzles gold 
on her breakfast toast, I remind her 

she’s seen the bee men in our tree, 
casting smoke like a spell until 

the swarm thrums itself to sleep.

Even before I speak
the gods are hawking answers,
vying for a slot above my head. 

and when I called out to the head, “Languille!”
the eyelids lifted up, this time, I swear,
in a distinctly normal movement, slow,
as if awakening, or torn from thought.

I’m asked questions about travel—
What countries I’ve visited, how long I stayed.

They press my fingers to a pad then frown
and shake their heads and press again.