Nikki Allen : Three Prose Poems
A bit about inevitable.
When you adopted the bee I didn’t say anything—I figured the inevitable sting would talk enough, eventually. You were hell-bent on training this--flight patterns and to come when called. Tore flowers from the ground for breakfast, fashioned a leash of thread, needle wand pinched and leading. The effort so much. A tiny bed was made, but the thing never rested, only hovered and hummed(the melody to which you drifted, one honey soaked finger extended off the bed edge). Things could not be persuaded different. Your clothes started looking like burlap; you fashioned awnings for eyes and made pistil necklaces. The closest thing to free. You were buying magnifying glasses and still thinking of names.
Heat lamps turned the room into a hue of butter, a birthday party for tiny wings. Sweet things as gifts. The bee stared past you, out the window(the candle went lit until the wax purple pooled the icing). The best present: a finger painted portrait of vibrations.
Then the back of knee. The strike like fractal lick, a hand to it immediate. Little bristled body drone around seconds before falling.
A funeral we all attended. Yellow and dark trumpet salute. Even your bandage the color of mourning.