collection
/BEE LB
a day is only a collection of hours, but the collection
of hours stretches endless ahead. a day is only
something to get through. the way to get through
is to catch each sound, bottle it quiet, open when in need
of a living reminder. hold out your hand and i will pour a sound into it.
here, the distant hum of a machine. an engine is only a collection
of metal. a collection of metal can mean anything,
including the hulking body of an engine driving
your brother into the road. a collection of metal can mean
anything, including the rod keeping his leg straight and in-tact.
the sound of an engine is only proof of life. hold out your hand
for a new sound, this one has not reminded you of a life you want to live.
try the high, clear whistle of a chickadee. it’ll pool in the palm of your hand
like silk. the way its wingspan is greater than the rest of its body
and still, it does not migrate. instead, its small body learns to grow cold,
conserve warmth, push through the freezing so they can nest til june.
i’ll catch each one of its chirps and save it for winter.
i’ll memorize the sight of its body on your rail.
a collection of bodies can mean anything, including the presence of life,
and waste. a collection of bodies can mean anything, including
your own holding still to encourage theirs to stay.
you’re used to that, aren’t you? the stillness of your body
can mean anything, including a way to avoid being seen.
the stillness of your body can mean anything, including a way
to avoid this living. the sound of an alarm in the distance,
the sound of a small child yelling, the sound of a door shutting heavy
beneath you. you’re chasing silence but the world is offering you proof of life.
isn’t this what you wanted? a sharp crack followed by a dull thunk
too far away to tell where they’re coming from.
all these noises from the belly of silence.
all these noises from the throat of life.
i’ll catch them for you, let you pretend you’re not living,
but each new sound requires a new bottle to quiet it.
the snapping of branches. the heavy click of forced air. a crane
groaning to life in the distance. tell me where to store this sound and i will.
i’ll teach your body not to jump. i’ll show your body how to stay.
Author’s Note: "collection" came about in Lyd Haven’s Solitude & Ourselves workshop, an examination of loneliness, sound, and connection through distance. The poem was a way of communing with the self, examining the way mundanity and crisis overlap throughout life, and attempting to offer what comfort could be found.
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 Press Pause Press, The Jarnal, and Popshot Quarterly, among others. they are the 2022 winner of FOLIO’s Editor’s Prize for Poetry as well as the Bea Gonzalez Prize for Poetry. their portfolio can be found at twinbrights.carrd.co.
