Neigh

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.