Hoverfly am I, I am what seeks to mimic what is. Following undefined perfection, that is the bumble too far from reach. I cannot span the distance to make self like idea; to feel closer, I move with heavy feet and muted voice. Buzzing to the bumble’s lyrics whose melodic hum became sharper, intense like grating nails that scratch at a blackboard, black man, the soul of the music has vanished. Scope of understanding and vision distorted with the sound, it was not a bumble but a wasp. With each step, I have aged, until presence in the present is no longer relevant. Deadlight sets; my horizon is shrinking.
Receptacles collecting pollen, greedily grab at loose powder particles, fertilizing and advocating for the reproduction [of beliefs]. Yet the book of the bumble, spoken by wasps, calls for abstinence, is it wrong to love loving, self, her, him?
No, is not applicable, it explains, believing plants should not cross-pollinate, but preaches tolerance and not hate, yet
Because love could never equate to humanity.
Receptacles of the mind failed to contain the relevance, and now the elephant in the room is a result of the absence. The abstinence from understanding. I am standing in a church cursing a god, my absent father, for how blinded they made me.
Wasps shout from a pew we must divide and divide and divide. The divided are divided based on the qualities that they do not possess. They are not lovers of the same species of flower, the color of their petals; are different. My side of the garden only has Hetero White lilies.
The wasp now deafens my ears, screaming a sharp curse about itself and what is not considered itself; it stings, and I swell with the hatred of its venom…
And like you,
I was promised honey.
Alicia Garrett is currently a Senior at Bowling Green State University, working towards a Bachelors degree in Creative Writing.