abyss with wasps’ nest by Lucy Ryan

how would you like her to articulate the lack of becoming?

the passage may have been slickened but listen,

even in soft-haired, soft-hearted girlhood she felt always on the urge of something ungodly

god, that vibration,

the errant hum of it singing somewhere between her lungs and soft belly, fraying her from within.

how can you say the bees are dying if there is a swarm sunk beneath her skin?

are you listening?

the bees are dying.

the bees are dying.

they’re coming home to Hades in the unearth of her body, and inside she unhinges like a serpentine jaw,

unbound and unattained to swallow them.

there is honey in her mouth, darling, spilt from jaw to pubic bone, like a slit they can’t patch up –

 is she the bad one?

is she the bad one?

tell me, am I the bad one?

what’s bad about the animal born by tearing off it’s own skin, ill-fit as new shoes, waiting to be broken in?