BEE LB
cw: blood, child abuse, death
still, somehow
after Hieu Minh Nguyen
as boys, our father shaped meat with his hands, colored red with what should have been
blood but was really coloring the store put in to keep it looking fresh. added red
seasoning on top, a dried kind of blood. charcoal or a red hot coil or a smoking grill
or simply seared flesh. an egg cracked and sopped into breadcrumbs.
salt and pepper and garlic and onion and sometimes shredded cheese as a surprise treat.
the gentility of his hands has crept in, a false memory. his hands wrapped around leather,
turning our bodies pink then red, more real but less tangible. if you make a fist
you better do something with it, his voice a list of commands. a chisel into tomb.
a permanent engraving on psyche if not stone. and what of it?
the smoke smelled like heaven even when it made our eyes water.
and because he isn’t here (won’t ever, again, be here) i can confess, i prefer my own,
red in the middle and still seeping, seasoned to hell and back, cheddar bubbled
and burning overtop, not ruined by the sweet tang of ketchup or the sour tang of mustard
or the sharp tang of horseradish, topped and bottomed with a bun covered in sesame seeds and
poppy seeds and grilled onions. the life of one sacrificed for another is not meaningless
but is rarely thought of. a whole summer without blood in my mouth, and what to show for it?
what to say for it? what to take or even think of it? the distance is gutted by death,
and what a plain word to mean a forever absence, a constant thought when once the wound
had been closed. my hands aren’t dripping blood or grease and i guess it doesn’t matter
and i guess it also does. somewhere i am haunted by a beautiful boyhood. here i am haunted
by the absence of childhood. fear is the true root of all ghosts, i’m sure it was already clear.
grief tastes of salt, brine and shriveling memories. memories, i meant truths,
though i don’t know what is true. i never saw our father take a life but i felt it, more real
than reality. again and again i felt without seeing. again and again i faltered.
cw: death, animal/bodily harm
Grief as Juggling Act
after Tristan Richards
To turn grief into motion, movement, first:
relax the set of your shoulders, loosen
the grip of your hands, practice with only one
monumental grief before building your act
to include more. When you’ve found the rhythm needed
to keep your grief’s movement even, add another in the arc of the first.
When you’ve found you can toss two griefs simultaneously,
can scoop them smoothly, can catch them with ease,
add a third. To juggle griefs, you must understand
their shape, size, weight— how they move,
how your movement changes them, how they intertwine
in the air— your mind must react before your body.
Keep practicing, you’ll get the hang of it eventually.
The more familiar you are with your grief,
the easier this act is to perform. If your grief is new
and raw, let it seep into something light before you begin.
Practice in the dark, where the only eyes watching
are your own, where your grief falling to the ground
will not erupt into a crowd taunting, the only jeers
will come from your own grief-stricken mind.
In order to perform well, you must learn
to tune out your cluttered thoughts. If you can’t,
you’ll never be able to perform under circus lights,
with a crowd encircling you, delighted at both
your incredible balance and your pitiful falls.
Because you are juggling grief, everything will go wrong.
The crowd will throw peanuts, the unicycle you are on
will pop its one tire, the candles you’ve turned your grief into
will drop, the bigtop will catch fire, a lion will escape
its cage, chase its tamer with the intention of eating,
audience members will trample each other in their rush
to escape, and all the while you’ll be under the spotlight
which threatens to drop, juggling your grief, attempting
to keep it all upright, hankies tugged from your sleeves and alighting, the palms of your hands close to burning, your act only just beginning.
You’ll be in this wreckage for the rest of your life.
BEE LB is a living poet, or at least the facsimile one; a porcelain pierrot with a painted face. they collect champagne bottles, portraits of strange women, and diagnoses. they've been published in G*Mob, MOODY, Landfill, and The Racket, among others. their portfolio can be found at twinbrights.carrd.co