early

BEE LB

my own cold startles me. the lake is green beneath me,

wild in the wind even as it snows.

the room keeps clawing up to 60, my eyes wet

in response to dry air. my body moves slowly, pinched

with frost. i didn’t used to mind.

now i’m something different. gulls are catching air,

letting it take them, lift their balanced bodies.

one hovers, steadying, then dropping. it catches

nothing. mostly frozen then. only

a few hours ago. sky is empty of birds now.

air heavy with silence. a patch of green

water glistens under the hint of sun.

i didn’t ask for this. did anyone?

grief lives in the room next to mine. no longer silent,

birdcall fills the air. it’s no warmer

but there is light. i knock on grief’s door

each time i have something to say.

sometimes, a response.

sometimes not.

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 on unceded Anishinaabe land in Michigan. they have been published in FOLIO, Figure 1, The Offing, and Harpur Palate, among others. their portfolio can be found at twinbrights.carrd.co and they can be found at patreon.com/twinbrights.