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Venus de Milo with Drawers Has Never Been in Love
Every night I have to release the bees
from my ribcage or else their hot-humming
burrows bone-through. Each one a new
hello, a get home safe, let me look at you,
why are you so late, I could have loved
you, maybe—each stir nectar-sweet, sting-
bitter, and urgent rattling my hipbones
knob-loose, shaking me awake to say: pay
attention, you did this. And I miss them
when they’re quiet, know they’ve fallen
still by lip and hand and warm sleep. Morning,
and I scoop the honey from beside my heart.