By Malia Bradshaw

I.

Every morning he left and I dreamed
of frozen eyelids- brown and blue like the dirt
I see stuck in the sky.

He pointed out that I’d never seen the fields at harvest
(he made me see those fields at harvest)
and I told him instead to think of the farmer that planted the rows
and rows of words I’m fed.
Your body is a flower for the bee. Let the bee take your nectar as it asks or doesn’t ask.
Let it pollinate you even when you feel like sleeping.

Find the farmer and tell him I’m not hungry.

II.

In October, I put my hands in the sand.
A little girl asks for ice to hold
against a swollen sting
from groping tentacles.

Go ahead and numb it, I say. But it never goes away.
and she cries.

Because there are things that you don’t ask for and want. Things that you ask for
and don’t want and things that you don’t ask for and don’t fucking want.

And maybe you stay frozen and maybe you don’t blink and maybe
you believe the farmer when he tells you it’s your own fault

because you had the nectar
                                    to take.
 

Malia Bradshaw received her BA in Psychology from St. Edward’s University, and has returned to St. Edwards to pursue a Masters of Liberal Arts with emphasis in Creative Writing. Before returning to St. Edward’s, she spent a year writing for several local magazines. She is also a yoga instructor in Austin.

Photo by Mitch Paine.