Poetry

and when I called out to the head, “Languille!”
the eyelids lifted up, this time, I swear,
in a distinctly normal movement, slow,
as if awakening, or torn from thought.

I’m asked questions about travel—
What countries I’ve visited, how long I stayed.

They press my fingers to a pad then frown
and shake their heads and press again.

In the book when the boy nearly drowned 
his legs wrapped in weeds or maybe rope 

Under the hanging lights in a pool hall
at nineteen I read the table after the break
and followed a map in my head

When my daughter drizzles gold 
on her breakfast toast, I remind her 

she’s seen the bee men in our tree, 
casting smoke like a spell until 

the swarm thrums itself to sleep.