THE FLOATING HEAD
Beekeeper, your most human lover, stuck
his honeyed tongue down your ear and said: “The drone,
my Queen, lives for one flight, one cosmic tuck.”
You woke the sleeping snake, then died alone.
Your pilot promised (lies, lies) you time and sky.
His god-like uniform and muscled wings
encircled and convinced you you could fly,
but you hijacked his flight plans for flirty flings.
My callused fingers plucked and improvised
on strings of you. Wafting willows sweep-snake
the flowers hearkened here, and there revise
this maenad madness that modulates our wake,
for when I lost my head and turned you quailed,
then, naked, slipped behind the shimmering veiled.
Days ago the clear sky disappeared and you
came on like a storm letting go.
Now, the landscaper is up to her knees in water,
water she set to drain, but failed.
Our property is afloat.
She wades directing her crew to dig here,
fill-in there. She sights, she measures.
Still, I struggle. For once we get the lay of the land
can we swim the channels, ford the shallows,
can we portage the dangerous currents,
or, when sirens break the silence,
will I tread here, while you,
content to forget when all was land,
swim for the breakers beyond escapement?
Larry W. Kelts grew up on a dairy farm in north-central
Pennsylvania. After working as a farmer, factory machinist,
laboratory technician, and research scientist he retired,
obtained an MFA from Bennington College and now reside in Newark
Delaware where he writes poetry and frequents the art scene in
Delaware and Philadelphia.