MORNING, BAY ST. LOUIS

BETH GORDON

 

I drop lemons in the kitchen, yellow globes of solar
storm, and search for coffee cups that strangers touched last week, conjuring hot
water and release of the swamp-dirt brew.
I am a witch here, of unrestrained salt and magic
vines, of mimosa blossoms opening like baby pink
flamingos waiting to be fed, of moon-married tides
that mix seaweed and mother-of-pearl beneath the familiar sea. I clean
wine glasses and knives, open windows and let the bees
inside to build their hives in the corners of this house, translating a spell to lull
them, the perfect frequency, unheard by mammal ears, so they will make us
honey and never sting your hands

 
 

∘∘∘