i will tell you this

to assume memory stretches further than the
body is to make of time something linear. 

how am i to know what memories i had
before the world closed in on itself? 

the fabric of life stripped of meaning,
stretched across the glass trapped in hand. 

the reminder of time once held, now gone;
a ring around my finger, the ghost of a smile. 

i will tell you this: i was trapped in a room,
waiting for the absence of sound. 

that has nothing to do with
the awaiting illness.  

i was beginning to see cracks through the
shell of my being, but that was before i knew 

the protective coat would reseal itself over
the mess my body made of itself.

i couldn’t tell you what day it was,
can hardly remember the month. 

time went slick, slipped on its own trail
and tumbled into nothing. 

i remember better the sound of warning
than the days leading up to it. 

the sound sharp as a missing note,
announcing that life has stilled, once again. 

that time will now fold back onto itself,
into itself, the body no longer safe. 

but when was it ever?

Photo by Nolan Issac on Unsplash.


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 Revolute Lit, After the Pause, and Roanoke Review, among others. they are the 2022 winner of FOLIO’s Editor’s Prize for Poetry as well as the Bea Gonzalez Prize for Poetry. they are a poetry reader for Capsule Stories. their portfolio can be found here.