RUNDELANIA

by BEE LB

Find the falls through the field


There are times the desperation to be needed gnaws 
at me, splits me open, urges me to gentle 

my hand. Other times I want to conjure a cardinal
from a cheek with the sting of my palm. It’s about dualities.

The distance between violence & suppression 
spans no great length. The difference between a whimper

& a bang: a choice. I want to learn
how to braid; divide evenly; keep strands 

separate between my deft fingers 
(in this dream, my fingers are long 

& thin). I want to feel the coarse fur of a beast
beneath my hand. Creation can be summed up

by the flush of blood beneath round cheeks.
Don’t you think? I let my feet guide me through 

wheat to water. I stifle my own voice, muffle my want;
I convince myself there is no need 

to think. I press the smooth heel
of my palm hard against my lips. Jut bone 

against bone between two layers of skin. Need is a tricky thing 
to define. Dependence held out of reach, leaving

no impression of will. 
I let my eyes fall on the glass 

of the lake & beg my body
to release its flood. The only response

the pintail’s whistle, like the call of a train. 







St. Lawrence Distributing the Treasures of the Church
after Jeffrey McDaniel


The last time I saw the Hudson unspool, I was
younger than I can, at this point in my life, imagine. 

The sun clawed its way over the horizon and my young eyes 
drank it in; the shimmer of light against the water;

the rough edge of each jutting rock; the hush of the waves 
crashing against them, a hoarse cry for me to join. 

Memories of the Hudson and the Atlantic knock teeth 
in an attempt to kiss, marry together into one watery image

something near the opposite of a mirage. I can still feel 
the arms of Saint Lawrence wrapped around my small body. 

Hills at the edge of sight, giant shoulders stuck 
in the perpetual start of a shrug. 

The line coiling around the tables at the food pantry
offering only what others sought to give away,

the burden in my arms growing heavier by the minute 
and my stomach growing emptier the same. 

My dreams then were filled with marvels
though when I say then, surely I mean now. 

Then, I dreamt only of freedom. 
A wide open field waiting for me to find it. 

Sunrise pulling me from sleep like the gentlest hand 
brushing across my face. Its warm fingers brushing through my hair. 

It’s possible none of these memories ever happened
but they’re all I have, and so I cling. 

My hand brushing across the horse’s back
fingers untangling each snarl of mane

arms hefting the saddle over his waiting body, 
legs lifting my own body to air. 

He followed my movement like we were one 
and the same. I taught my chest to match his heavy breaths. 

We found the field, empty and awaiting. Had I known 
it would be the only time, I would’ve let my face go.

Let the control melt from my shoulders, my aching jaw.
Let tension melt its way out of my young body. 

Felt salt on my face same as the ocean. 
Let my body be held by my still beast. 

But I didn’t know
and so I held the reigns, sat still

looked at the endless earth waiting ahead.
I could tell you now it's not too late. I could learn now 

I do not have to hold my face together. 
I could soften, unravel, let my body be just what it is. 

Let my limbs hang limp beneath their own weight. 
Let my eyes shed salt, so far from the ocean. 

I could let my face go, safe here 
in the absence of others

but I didn’t know, and I never learned
and I cannot understand how to teach myself something I don’t know. 

So I feel each limb strain under the weight of my control
tension laced through my body like taut thread. 

So I choose movement and stillness
stiff as a marionette. 

So I leave the grocers with only wine and bread,
my makeshift communion.

So I lose myself in the confines of my mind
ask for only what I know I cannot have.

So I curse my disbelief 	when I do not receive it.
So I stare in the mirror 	and find only me.

So I touch my own face 	which has never felt like mine. 
So I bend under the water 	and ask to be cleansed. 

So I coat myself in salt 	and never come out clean. 
So I bless nothing	and no one	and still question my own misery. 

So may I bless 	the self-infliction	may I forgive the self-imposed 
trespassing		may I forget the rest. 







self-portrait as body of confusion


i discover what my body holds within
and am sated. curiosity dissipates
like steam in a cold room. my tongue

grows heavy in my mouth, coated in
silence and stale coffee. cold water.
a forgotten toothbrush. i cling

to the knowledge of what’s inside me
for as long as i can. memory becomes
sieve. knowing dissipates like steam

in a cold room. wings buzz beneath
my skin, beating their way out of me
and never breaking through. fists beat

from above my skin, knuckles digging
into the fat of a thigh— again, again,
again. bruises bloom, then sour.

my fingers press against them like piano keys.
no music. no notes. no sound. my tongue
remains heavy in my mouth. my ears ring; bells

or buzzards. i do not know what my body holds.
i am so afraid of what i do not know. i straighten up.
let my face fall slack. control the tic in my lips, jaw,

nose, cheek. it migrates down to my right hand.
then back up to my left eyelid. mirrors whisper
secrets from beneath their silvered sheen and

were i brave enough to break them, i could
flip the shards over and hear. i am not brave.
the mirror’s voices don’t let up. questions form

in me like bubbles; a pot beginning to boil over.
the reduction of heat and steaming foam.
the sizzle of water against a burning coil.

like the desire to press a hand flat, just once, just
for a second. to see how quickly heat bleeds into skin.

i count to five. i empty a bottle. i count to three.
i let sound shiver through me. i let my legs carry me
where they will. i accept it when they carry me only

to bed. i empty a bottle and half of one more. i count
to five. i begin to count, one— i stop.

the color of coffee grounds makes
itself known in my body. i check my eyes for signs
of desire. memory becomes a sieve,
books piled on the floor. a ladder. a hammer. six

pieces of tape. nothing fits how it’s meant to
and all i can do is hide. i lay down. stretch my body

flat. i count to five. i find what is inside me. i watch
it spill out, line after solid line. it doesn’t drip.

i count to five. it doesn’t drip. i count to ten.
it doesn’t hurt. i count to five as deeply as i can

without fear. i forget to cross the tally marks
but i do not lose count. i count to five. i discover
what my body holds within and am sated.

no evidence of tar. no green seeping. no yellow
oozing. no evil leaking out. i spend a day in the comfort
of a bottle. two bottles. i count to six, then stop.

i wonder what it might be like to find flowers,
at least seeds, inside my body. anything better than
blood. though the blood at least belongs to me. 






reader,
after Major Jackson


reader, i should have told you sooner. i wish 
you were here where i could see you, trace your eyes 
with my eyes, reach out and hold you. 
reader, i am asking you to hold me. do you mind? 
we’ve only just begun, and already, i’m asking favors. 
reader, i’m asking again, will you forgive me? 
will you absolve me of whatever guilt 
i’ve laid across my shoulders? reader, 
i should have absolved you sooner. 
my guilt is not yours to bear, but here, 
in this poem, we are together, and i can ask anything of you 
i choose. so i choose this: reader, tell me, 
will you go along with me?

BEE LB is an array of letters, bound to impulse; a writer creating delicate connections. they have called any number of places home; currently, a single yellow wall in Michigan. they have been published in FOLIO, Figure 1, and The Offing, among others. their portfolio can be found at twinbrights.carrd.co