WREN DONOVAN
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Bees
I used to sit in pools of clover
making chains of flowers for my head and
neck. The corner yard in Utah
pointing back to planes in silhouette
across a summer field of sun and weeds.
Construction sites with danger signs
and dirty holes. Boys who cussed and girls
who started schoolyard fights. Un-Southern
snow turned grey in school bus fumes.
Daddy’s black fur Russian hat,
blue camper in the carport. Wooden
fence around the deck above a hole
unfinished. Hiding places, brown and green.
I diverged that year, went void-of-course. I called
the seagulls. See the Wasatch range, and honey bees,
more clover. Yellow glass distorting heads and
hands that knock at misremembered doors
I hesitate to open, still too young. I’ll hide
here with my ghosts who are all happy
in the basement where I slept and multiplied.
Wren Donovan
First published in Chaotic Merge Magazine, September 2023
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