Poetry

Under the hanging lights in a pool hall
at nineteen I read the table after the break
and followed a map in my head

When my daughter drizzles gold 
on her breakfast toast, I remind her 

she’s seen the bee men in our tree, 
casting smoke like a spell until 

the swarm thrums itself to sleep.

Even before I speak
the gods are hawking answers,
vying for a slot above my head. 

and when I called out to the head, “Languille!”
the eyelids lifted up, this time, I swear,
in a distinctly normal movement, slow,
as if awakening, or torn from thought.