The Flim-Flammer Jumped in the Flivver and Faded (or: Honey) Laurel K Dodge

The Flim-Flammer Jumped in the Flivver and Faded
(or: Honey)

The wind wheezed like a lunger.
The clouds, a Chicago overcoat,
hung heavy and black.

The sun was a canary in a mine;
rain drizzled greasy as duck soup.
The trees, bare limbs beseeching

the sky were dead-ringers
for mourners. The grass, bereft
of green, was the color of java.

My getaway sticks got stuck
in the mud. My get up and go
was gone. Where were you?

It was November. Then this:
Suddenly, snow falls
like mazuma and accumulates

as fast as vigorish. I dislocate
my shoulders and slip the nippers
from my wrists. I hold out my paws

and catch ice crystals that melt
on contact with my skin. Baby, I’m hot
and bothered; baby, I’m rich.

Understand? I’m out from behind
that damned eight ball. Write
all the orphan papers you want;

you can’t put a cost on this.
It’s not even spring but I have the bees
in my blood; my heart is a hive.

My body is wings and sting and buzz.
Say I love you. Cut me open right now.
Who knows? I might bleed

honey. I might whisper: Low,
low, low. I might snap a cap: Yes!
I just might say it back. Out loud.