why bees sting (even knowing what will happen)




bee art




i’m not talking about the wave of rage

that comes when one is cut off

in traffic, or buying groceries, that blip

of a primal urge to snap a neck,

disappearing too soon to be

rightfully acknowledged.

when she’d wound him,

disappearing at night to buy drugs

and re-emerge remorseless,

a hot-air gaslight full of bile

and fake babies, what i pictured

was not a cartoon death,

some kind of petty punchline.


i wanted

to tear each shred of flesh from her small body,

wanted her skin in ribbons through the cracks

in my fingers. a novice, lacking the right

vocabulary for violence, I pictured

clenching some vague organ,

relishing fistfuls of something crimson and soft.

in the old tradition, wasting nothing,

i’d floss the meat from my teeth with sinew,

my neck a carabiner keyring of bitch bones,

knowing all the while this vicious unwinding

of entrails like streamers from a sad piñata

is still a holier sacrament than she gave

him with this body, when it was still

a body.

when i could still wonder

why bees sting, even knowing

what will happen.






lately i call so many things garbage

that when i went to go take out my trash

last week, i couldn’t find the word.

i hate how much irony it takes

to keep the motor running, the lights on

in the useless room behind my eyes

where one mirror pouts into another

quoting lines from a movie

written by somebody else.


sometimes i wish comparing a lover to

a summer’s day was still up for grabs,

that i could look at a sunset and

honest-to-god, actually buy it.

i want to turn to you and sigh something

that doesn’t come out of a can,

like, “when you swipe your fingers

between my thighs like that

it’s like someone smashing

the motherfucking like button

on all of my tweets at once,”

so hideous and hot it burns down

every Wal-Mart® on the planet.


but then where would you go

when you wanted to find me?


author photo i guess



Kat Giordano is a poet and massive crybaby in Pittsburgh, PA. Her poems have appeared in Indigent Press, Rat’s Ass Review, The Cincinnati Review, Up The Staircase Quarterly, and others. They have also been known to show up trembling on people’s doorsteps in the middle of the night, too traumatized to explain what they’ve seen. She is a co-editor of Philosophical Idiot and can usually be found overindulging in her shoddy mental health at katgiordano.com or on Twitter at @giordkat


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