Improv 1 Week 1

Selection of Sylvia Plath’s “The Arrival of the Bee Box”
I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.

--

I gaze at the lacquered box,
And feel the heat of African hands
Shaping wood and splinters to this
Coaster holder, our makeshift urn.
The black swirls peel from grains as
I argue with my mother.
You can’t keep a dead man in the
kitchen. Her brother, Johnny.
Overdosed on heroin and
Apathy, his death too shameful for
A service. For a burial. His life too
Gutter to spread ashes. Where—
Little Five? Cabbage Town? The I-20 bridge?
He squats in our house, his ashes hoarded in
My nose and the vacuum cleaner.
I hear the heart beat of an addict
And feel like pressurized wood
As a ghost watches me not sleep.
The most time he’s spent with me in
Years, though he once crocheted a
Bear for me in jail and sent me
Birthday cards with my misspelled name.
I can feel the Africans, their drums and
Johnny’s heartbeat roaring to
The tune of denial.