Catharine B. De Pau Poetry Prize, 2017

 

I   have   worn  a   honeycomb   ring   on   my  right

ring     finger     for     three     years     now.     Last

Monday,  a   bee   left   his  stinger   in  that  spot.

The    bee   dizzied   down,     not   to    fly   again.   I

whispered,    “I’m  so   sorry,”   and   my  eyes   got

wet.     A     Google     search     incriminated     my

floral    print.   I    passed    four    dead   raccoons,

three      dead      opossums,      and      one      dead

squirrel    on    the    way    home,    apologizing    to

each    one.   Honey,   inhospitable     to    negative

energies,     is     the     only     eternal      food.     In

Mesopotamia,   it   was   used   to  protect  burns

and   cuts   from   further  infection.  When   men

shout  in   the   street,  I   whisper,  “I’m  so  sorry

this   is   happening   to   you,”   into   my   sister’s

ear.  On  another   night,   I  feed   an   apology  to

a   man   who    has   followed   me   home.   I   feed

another    before   jumping   into    a   cab   to   get

away.   I    never    empty   of   it. I   have   a   friend

who   smells   like   yellowy   sugar.   She  has  told

me    that    it    takes   years   to    unlearn    these

things.   Sarah     lives   by    Nietzsche:   What   do

you regard  as most humane? To spare someone

shame.   I   leave   her   kitchen   at  12:43   AM   to

read   on   the   train.  I   realize   I’ve   memorized

Whitman    wrong.    “I     carry    multitudes,”     he

                                                       never wrote.