Where the bee sucks, there suck I.
Shakespeare
By the canal. Behind a bust of Socrates
she built a house
for fairies out of sticks and moss. It was Summer.
She had returned from Ireland
and there it was made clear the evidence.
They're real, she said,
and there's nothing wrong with building
homes for them.
The stones that I thought were worthy
I offered. I smoked
like it was the last day on earth. It was.
In that house
everything I imagined of love was created
and destroyed
to make room for strange voices. What is doubt
without a bed?
A train went by and we both counted the cars.
I asked her
what she was doing later. I stared too much.
Will you please
give me that leaf, she said. Somewhere for us
to wipe our feet.
©
is the author of the chapbook The Party In Question (Burnside Review Press, 2007). His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in many journals, including Bat City Review, jubilat, 42opus, Painted Bride Quarterly, and San Pedro River Review. He lives in Virginia and is the managing editor for Sport Literate.
We’ve published two more poems by Reading: “It Was Supposed To Be Just One” and “Long Sung Blues.”
