June 1, 2013

Honeycomb by Isabella Edquist

Dear winter, I love your autumn overcoat,
you tease. A physicist sets up his contraption
to capture fresh snowflakes on film,
but today I’m humming the song of spring
out the smallest of two golden windows,
up in the eaves again, waking our old huntsman.
The spines of my books could fade to
sea-coloured nothingness, here in a
surfeit of sun.

That late spring, bees
swarmed around the bare tree
looking for a home,
wrapped themselves into a virile rope.
Their thuggish thronging was
sapping her sap.
I searched in vain for an omen
that wasn’t -
to have bees in your house
means to lose it all
in a flower of flame and amber.

Honeycomb building. I crossed myself
in golden lust for the sundrenched legs
of a Japanese cupboard I saw once
in a hazy antique shop above a Taipei train station.





Isabella Edquist writes and dreams from Canberra, the bush capital of Australia, where she studies anthropology. She is influenced by Angela Carter, Chopin and the search for four-leaf-clovers. Her work has appeared in Canberra-based Block Creative Journal.

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