Neigh
Written by Cailey Tin, one of our poetry writers, and edited by Stephanie, our editor-in-chief!
When footsteps pounce / from the bee-buzzing yard / to the front door, I don’t recognize the pair of feet, & the only name / I give him—zipping, zipping, over my head—is Neigh / my next-door neighbor / whom I never see unless he marches in / on afternoons where I am preached at / to be kind & plant flowers / for him. / He has a double chin & looks / like this: golden horns sprouting, honey-coated & climbing, climbing / each ladder of elongated spine / breath sweetened after I left him / some nectar; he sucked it, slurped, & left / specks of skin on the floor. He can’t pick up / sound & he doesn’t say / anything when he stings me, but I know / all too well the vacancy / in his mouth / is a loose tooth, & the gap between me & the ceiling in 2018 / versus 2023 is a rope / of its own. / When any number accelerates, I am chided / by Neigh & told to keep going / because when one tooth falls out, there is no stopping / its neighbors. Bloated / gum’s only way is up, up, & the margins / of my leg’s bone marrow is too swollen around / the sting area to have enough / space for needle-like pieces to be arranged / like honeycomb. / I know now that there is no halting; only reaching & reaching. / I’m not going to lie when I looked down / & saw him accompanied by an angry swarm / of bees–buzzing, buzzing / waiting to sting.
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This piece was written by one of our poetry columnists, Cailey. Reach 'em at @cailey.tarriane on Instagram!
This piece was edited by our editor-in-chief, Stephanie O.!
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