Listen by Geraldine Green

I’m listening to my age.

It is humming of fear and fascination.

The bees inside my head sting me into waking.

..

I want to take the 59 bees –

wild, unswarmed – and place them

in the lift.

..

………The lift will take them down

to the basement.

..

………I hear them,

………………the bees.

They are angry inside their steel

………………grey coffin.

Their humming diminishes.

..

Now all I can hear is my breathing.

..

It is coming from behind

the ochre door.

The ochre door that sounds like spices

and Christmas.

..

..

One door is painted yellow

………………It sounds like madness.

I place my palm against its madness

………lean closer,

……………………..Listen.

..

The bees are back; they’re swollen with pollen.

..

Their brownblack furred back legs

………articulate their fury.

..

If I hold my breath

………they may not hear me.

If I take off my shoes

………………slip them

inside my pocket

……………..tiptoe along

………this hall to another door

I may find myself looking.

..

Perhaps this door, door of

cool cerulean,

………crustaceaned sky

may heal me.

..

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