Jane Morton
Before bees caught in my hands,
shaking. Before my mouth
filled with honey. Before the cottonwoods shed
and made spring winter.
Woolly seed all in the air like snow. No way
of knowing it would hurt me
just to breathe it. My chest mottled the same red
as my hands, breaking hard
bewildered fruit just for the sting. Bitter juice
hot as batteries, a fat lip.
Before you met me, I was my own
fever. My own bite bruising.
And how could I have known how
heat breaks. How to show
teeth without the blood. Stubborn
smudge on a mirror, no way
of knowing how you'd haunt
what I see there.
When the trees shed it's already over:
sexed in secret, a closed bud.
Before I spoke, I was only my body.
All blooming rash, all asthma
evidence kept flesh-deep. Before you named me,
I was so many things.
Before your mouth, a line
of ants drawn down my back.