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buzz-cut the poppies

if you only watch one bee
at a time        you’ll see me
sorting myself as beans
you won’t see             winding vine  whole hive

you won’t see
my mother chewing on
her tongue     masticating    mouth            muscle
while crocheting leaper’s bandages
for the relief society
while I eulogize roadkill,
pining for divine cultivation

you won’t see how
every May my father buzz-cuts the poppies
like my four-year-old hair
if you’re lucky like                    me    and the east cherry tree
he’ll cut down second
if he loves you like                   his blue-box beehives
he’ll buy a new one of you,
no–two new ones of you
and plant you like his peach trees

you won’t see me sorting myself as beans
before school starts be
cause he will take out his teal suitcase
and put on his
temple tie
and he will give me  a father’s blessing

if you only watch one bee
you won’t see that to me
his register feels                 very far from a father’s
rather closer to god’s
who is a white wind       which whispers

you are a        peculiar pest
prescribed no priesthood promise 


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