cartilage, blood, bone, and lymph

the lyric won’t come when it’s called, i have to be invited. 

lemon soap over hardwood
sawdust, burnt grass. 

newspaper crumpled to wash 
windows—no streaks. 

feet sinking into sandbar. ankle-high 
water. skin peeling a satisfying stripe. 

freckles blooming. oil-shine 
in the parking lot. a collection 

of beer caps. bottles in the window sending rays 
across the room. a makeshift shooting star.

endless wishes. the past walks in on the present
covers its eyes for privacy. the future looks over

its shoulder, watching it all blandly. 
the sun, the water, the grass. all of it dying. 

the lyric won’t come when it’s called, i have to be invited. 
lemon soap and sharp bleach. floor shining beneath 

dirty feet. a window so clear you forget the boundary. 
all these strands left untucked, fraying. where is the 

connective tissue? a can of cherries in sauce. a summer 
of sinking into the sandbar. the sun baking us. 

the grass burning. the second before flame, sulfur. 
smoke clouding the air. lemon scent lingering after 

washing. broken peaks over lemon meringue. candles 
lit and spilled and blown out. smoke clouding the air.

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. They are a poetry reader for Capsule Stories. Their portfolio can be found at

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