Martin Cathrae CC
At the End of Summer, I Eulogize Myself Again
Sometimes the only thing separating a bee
from nectar is a window. I make myself a note
to move the flowers from the window rather
than just moving the flowers from the window
and some might call this depression.
The way the sunflower bends its neck
near death, away from the sun--enough,
enough, it whispers to evaporating, tainted water.
Sometimes we are the bent necks,
and sometimes we are the bee.
Or perhaps we are the hand
slapping the bee away.
Slapping in a morse code
I-am-not-a-flower but maybe
what we really mean is that we
When I die, (here I go again)
move the cursor near the end of the page
then please type the words, at times she
wished she had been born a daffodil
or a tulip--some seasonal bulb plotting
below, and other times it was fine
to be the still life figure enjoying fruit
so many mouthfuls before decay.
Jess Burnquist is the author of the chapbook You May Feel Your Way Past Me (Dancing Girl Press). Her poetry has appeared in journals such as Clackamas Review, Ms. Magazine/Ms.Muse, Rise Up Review, Poetica Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review and more. She currently directs education and youth empowerment at a human rights anchored non-profit in Southern California.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.