The Bee-Bearded Man's Only Son

    Jim Zola

    This is the day the bee-bearded man's only son is to wed
    a girl from a town that knows nothing of bees.
    The son himself feels no affection towards the bees,
    but out of a sense of decency and heritage
    has taken his father's trick one step further,
    wearing a suit of bees and a tophat that sets the wedding crowd
    to murmur. One fat aunt from Paducah faints,
    and the men who know her gather round and bicker
    about what should be done, until the question becomes moot
    as she opens her eyes and mouths the word "yellow."
    The only clothing he wears not made of bees
    are his Italian leather shoes because he's afraid
    of what he might step on. The day is hot
    and locusts hanging in trees make it difficult to hear
    what the preacher is saying, something about hard work,
    love and honey. No one listens. They are looking
    at the bee suit, the way it moves constantly,
    yet stays whole. The bride thinks about the coming night,
    perfume between the breasts. She wonders if bees
    get tangled in his hair. The son counts the moments
    until he can shed his winged tuxedo. The bees
    think nothing, drone, worker, all dying for the hive.
    The father sips whiskey through a straw and considers
    his toast -- drinks held high to the first sting.

    July 2000, from Gumball

    Enlightenment

    Marilyn Injeyan

    When her mother throws
    a metal sugar jar at her dad
    leaving a dent in the wall,
    the child appears calm.

    She has studied Buddha,
    has chosen to follow his path
    accepts the dharma, his teachings
    of peace and moderation.

    Wearing a yellow robe,
    she sits in the shade
    of a fig tree and vows
    to remain till answers come.

    Her hair swept up
    in a wisdom bump. Curls
    combed to the right.
    She's drawn a mark between

    her brows, wheels on her small
    palms and the soles of her feet.
    She's in the lotus position.
    No one in the house

    notices her absence.
    A hand fills her rice bowl.
    She gathers filtered light
    to bathe her mind, to drown

    the screams and silences
    and sweep away spilled sugar.

    November 2000, from MindFire

    Voudoun Tale

    Jim Zola

    A man sits down to a table and explodes.
    Bits of him float from the ceiling covering
    his family like feathers, spicing their food.

    In Haitian there are 27 words
    for fire and none for snow. The undead walk
    through coals and leave no footprints. They work
    the cane harvest without pay. It's difficult
    to tell who is who in the fields.

    I put sugar in my coffee and wait for my heart
    to race, ready to confess my sins
    to no one. An empty house has no ears.
    I write fire on paper 27 times
    and feel the heat. My scalp snows my shoulders.
    I have wasted my life.

    How many times have I attempted to leave?
    I sit in my car, listen to Blues For Pablo
    hissing somewhere almost beyond the radio's
    reach. Once I got as far as New Orleans
    where a loony nag on Magazine Street
    told me my eyes were not right then asked
    for a dollar. I had two.

    Three times I think. The rest of the time,
    I drift like feathers from the ceiling.
    I love a woman I do not know. I write snow,
    it turns to fire. I know a woman I do not love.
    Footprints and shadows. These are my sins.

    This is no tale familiar. This is not
    the story of my life. A poet sits
    at the table and explodes. There is no
    family to notice. Or not notice.
    The room slowly fills with silence. With this.

    January 2001, from Melic Roundtable


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     Interboard Poetry Competition First Place Poems