A Poem for 052809

A Necklace of Bees

I feel like
mourning black
should drap
my frame,
fill my closet,

for the death
(and could it
be described
in any other way?)
of the past
that wasn't,

or couldn't be,

hangs around
my neck
like bees
strung on a line,
still buzzing,
still angry

and in a moment
I will walk again
through the real
front door
not the one
in my head,
in the past
that never was
or the present
that isn't,

just mist
and shadows
filling the rooms
of my mind

and I'm angry
like the bees,

and we are stinging

and I'm smiling
like I did
so long ago

and the silt
at the bottom
of this lake
has been stirred
up, obscurring
something,

something
that I can feel
if I reach down

and now that
i've found it
again

now that I'm
touching it
again

i'm not
going
to let go