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Felicia Zamora

Three Poems by Felicia Zamora

December 3, 2015

Picture of the Hive

Fingers to keyboard, cyber-minded

when the photo hits your inbox—

Hexagons burnt into wood: a pattern

innately inside the bee, graffiti-ed

by human hands. A welcome

for whom? A home of sorts.

Display of bees; built production

of honey and love. A patch of bodies

leaks up from the lower opening

disobedient; gravity uncontained

in roil of wings and legs and thoraxes.

Vision of keeping. How insect grows

beyond singularity. Shared action

creates: a bee on a bee on a bee

becomes swarm: how one must settle

into colony, endure abdominal glands

producing wax, barbs on the stinger,

following and giving. Does the bee

ever feel disconnected? A moment of life

pixelated across the screen. You, now,

deep in apiology, witness yourself

on haunches inside the bee yard,

pollen and honey in your hair, swept

in the zzzzzzzzz dwelling inside you.

 

 

Alone at the Lake

How often your mind mirrors the lake,

surface frozen, mid ripple.

What was once water

rips from sand at the seam—

to be unstitched; bits of you

scatter & resemble seeds

dried & un-sowable. Beyond shore

depths teem. What keeps

a body held in? Sewn breath

of January wrinkles thoughts

here—where buoys strew

float-less & sad—a crime

scene in wait of discovery.

You want to believe

a shore may stretch forever,

guarded circumference of self

looping in & around a body

immobilized; the amygdala

disobeys dormancy, streams

memory without consent.

& you say “undone” & “regret”

as part of language the cerebral cortex

muddled out of nothing

to understand, and yet—an echo

of spring unravels clues

piling in the dense clouds. & mystery

swims in each opening

of the aortic valve. To dissipate

upon notice, or not be noticed at all—

precipitation the sky kept; air

feeding lungs; gray matter

in action: words

forming within a tendril of brain

& all the world synapses; all the world

fluid & permeable—you are

hardly able. Hardly.

 

In Hush

Sun’s lug: a blazon crown in horizon. All shadows

seeded in shadow, linger—what gape
before

recede, before light reclaims. Space dances in

the in-between, diachronic of self –

luminance. Ineffable

a moment—we have been brought here: soul-

heavy, naked gait, eyes feasting. You witness:

tree trunks burnt into morning. You shift

your eyes away; the burnt follows

the grey of landscape emerges through the onyx-

brushed blue; & we enter

something elemental, something

coaxing; the dream left us here to puzzle deeper

into the dream. Hushed as a baby, we fell

in love with movement of lips, rigidity of teeth,

song forming in the back of our throat. Larynx

cajoles our hymns out, out—
release. We find

our brain in hum; our brain translucent in early

fires of day, absorption ready. You find yourself

in stop; the crosswalk brisk; your hair sweeping

cheeks and forehead in gentle waves.
Intake.

Intake this color rich, cold comfort—
rising. &

the geese, in long forget, go about their honking;

the fire station opens its eyelids one at a time

in a slow, backwards wink— motion by motion,

the city wakes as part of you & you

gazer, your mouth puckered in hush.


Felicia Zamora is the author of two chapbooks and winner ofthe 2015 Tomaž Šalamun Prize from Verse. Her poems are found in Cimarron Review, Crazyhorse, Puerto del Sol, Tarpaulin Sky, The Laurel Review, Witness Magazine, and others. She is an associate poetry editor for the Colorado Review and holds an MFA from Colorado State University.  

Photo Credits: carianoff / Foter.com / CC BY-SA Irudayam / Foter.com / CC BY-ND
In Poetry Tags Felicia Zamora, Poetry, Picture of the Hive, Alone at the Lake, In Hush
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