Deep breath, sharp sting, the throbbing ache,
An instant to inject
And poison swirls, a writhing snake
Delivered to protect.
Inscrutable, the fate of bees,
What are we, cursed or blessed?
Inoculated, well at ease,
Existence laid to rest.
Yet water buckets need to fill
Through brambles, tears and scabs
Our thirsty blooms need tending still
By arms stung numb with jabs.
With venomed veins and bloody knees
We persevere for springtime bees.
“My friends call me ‘la poetessa obscura,’ as my words have been directed towards myself or specific people, rather than towards a broader audience. I write in two languages, English and Russian, and let the words come and settle as they are, volatile or tame, vers libre or form.” – the writer