Maryam Emamdee (16)
the sin of a sting
how do i now perceive bees like the supposedly virtuous creatures they are?
i hear my sister’s appeasing lullaby as she dresses my wounds left from your sting,
those cratered marks scarring like a honeycomb skeleton
(but bees strip the pollen from a myriad of flowers)
I distinctly recall your bushy shrub of a moustache,
perched perpetually in a scowl as you struck me with the branch
(i wonder if the roses complained as those creatures excoriated them of love as they ruthlessly
slithered between those dainty petals)
my brain was so muddled that i couldn’t remember if this was the third or the thirtieth time
(i heard the dandelions weeping from my windowsill for they knew the swarm would return)
those black bruises and yellow tinged skin; it was almost as if I couldn’t bring myself to bleed
(bees aren’t even aware of their own colours, they just glimpse the ultraviolet tinge and their feelers ignite)
you wrenched at the furs of my being until i was nothing but tassels,
and for what? to crown yourself like a queen on a throne of an apiary?
(they guzzle down that treacly ambrosia only to vomit it back out as honey)
but that final day, the day i lost both my wings but remained with my heart,
you seared into me so severely that you set yourself alight
(when bees sting for the first time, they die from the massive abdominal rupture left from the stinger puncturing flesh)
and oh honey,
oh, how it felt like my head had been released from this thrumming beehive of a life.
Maryam Emamdee is a 16 year old artist of sorts residing in the island of Trinidad and Tobago, a sister of the vast West Indies. By day she is a scientist, mixing chemicals in the lab, but by night she is a poet, taking inspiration in the everyday occurrences around her. She has been writing for as long as she can remember and finds comfort in words more than she does in a warm embrace. Body Without Organs is the first literary magazine in which her work is published. Although frequently told to get her head out of clouds or novels (aren’t they the same thing?), she will continue to create masterpieces from her head to page for as long as her hands allow.
the sin of a sting
how do i now perceive bees like the supposedly virtuous creatures they are?
i hear my sister’s appeasing lullaby as she dresses my wounds left from your sting,
those cratered marks scarring like a honeycomb skeleton
(but bees strip the pollen from a myriad of flowers)
I distinctly recall your bushy shrub of a moustache,
perched perpetually in a scowl as you struck me with the branch
(i wonder if the roses complained as those creatures excoriated them of love as they ruthlessly
slithered between those dainty petals)
my brain was so muddled that i couldn’t remember if this was the third or the thirtieth time
(i heard the dandelions weeping from my windowsill for they knew the swarm would return)
those black bruises and yellow tinged skin; it was almost as if I couldn’t bring myself to bleed
(bees aren’t even aware of their own colours, they just glimpse the ultraviolet tinge and their feelers ignite)
you wrenched at the furs of my being until i was nothing but tassels,
and for what? to crown yourself like a queen on a throne of an apiary?
(they guzzle down that treacly ambrosia only to vomit it back out as honey)
but that final day, the day i lost both my wings but remained with my heart,
you seared into me so severely that you set yourself alight
(when bees sting for the first time, they die from the massive abdominal rupture left from the stinger puncturing flesh)
and oh honey,
oh, how it felt like my head had been released from this thrumming beehive of a life.
Maryam Emamdee is a 16 year old artist of sorts residing in the island of Trinidad and Tobago, a sister of the vast West Indies. By day she is a scientist, mixing chemicals in the lab, but by night she is a poet, taking inspiration in the everyday occurrences around her. She has been writing for as long as she can remember and finds comfort in words more than she does in a warm embrace. Body Without Organs is the first literary magazine in which her work is published. Although frequently told to get her head out of clouds or novels (aren’t they the same thing?), she will continue to create masterpieces from her head to page for as long as her hands allow.