Marianne Szlyk

from the Kingfisher archive

After Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings

For the one listening, 

the Atlantic is to the west.

Summer sunset ends her day,

light fading as she fades

onto cool blue sheets,

duvet pulled up to her chin.

The strings swell and ebb

like the ocean she imagines.

In her land-locked city,

she may wake up to rain

or dust catching in her throat.

Tonight she dreams of the ocean.

 

Photo by Aihua Gao

The Bees Return to Maryvale Park

On the lip of a lavender flower, 

a bee breathes in the wild scent 

born of swamp water, thick mud,

and sunshine, not sugar

or perfume.

Another bee pries out pollen

to add to its sweet hoard,

the kind we may not bottle

or sell: the bees’ own.  

Or so we want to imagine.

Probably a house on MacArthur

has hives, stacks of white boxes

tucked among peach and apple trees,

behind a tidy brick ranch.

The owner settles on the stoop. 

He plans to sell the honey,

his honey—la miel.  

He may sell the pollen too.

Wherever they come from,

whether the honey is theirs

or their keeper’s,

masses of bees dip into blue vervain,

Joe Pye Weed, tiny yellow daisies,

all the flowers that grow in the swamp

with cat of nine tails and stunted,

large-leafed trees.

The bees were dying once.

This summer they are reborn.

Originally published in In Quarantine

 

from the Kingfisher archive

Leaving the City Made of Fog

After Hung-Ju Kan, Density Vs. Emptiness 20-3 (triptych), 2020

In quarantine, the artist walks past spring flowers,

pink dogwoods that could be starched silk.

The slight wind pushes cherry blossoms 

to the ground where footsteps crush them.

The blue haze smells of alcohol wipes, scent

of this hospital city.  Sirens’ sounds

drown out the thin songs 

of returning birds perched in trees.

Mist hangs down to hide houses.

He has seen too much in winter

when he walked miles to the studio, 

stretched canvas, used oils 

to capture the city of fog

and the girl who smelled of mocha 

and turpentine.  Twice they danced 

at a club, pressed together without masks.

At last sun and sky break through.

Next week he is leaving the city of fog.

Next week he is flying home.

Masked and gloved,

he will ride the empty subway, 

feeling the streets above him disappear,

longing for the streets back home 

crowded with people who brush past him.

He has already forgotten the girl’s name.

Originally published in Sheila-na-gig.