A fertile submission
in a dark nest and
yet it is believed that beings
must be next to each other to touch.
In my hive, he prayed for my nectar.
With a steady hum buzzing through the forest.
I stuck out my tongue, angry that the poems
I imagined on his neck could never be written.
The trees talked,
Screamed when he cut.
My flow: mastered by the whistles
of Gods breath which is something I cannot cut.
Until the posture of my stems burn to accept my strings.
Like an innocent genius, I have rejected his artist,
Trying to speak silence until
we are both united to hear it.
Copyright © Zoleka Mannie | Year Posted 2020
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