WHIPPING-BEE
All through the whipping-bee, everyone dreamed up
their own bees: dining-bees with heavy silver,
a bee to admire a prodigal child, a caulking job,
a money-bee to counterfeit a mint
or to work the fields at night. People
whip-stitched round the edges of
a quilt of black and gold, raised the frame,
pressed apples from their skins, friends
at least, in willingness to raise and press
and skin, despite their illness of the fastest stitch,
a whisper and spit-house built for karma.
But the whipping-bee was different: people
weren’t just labor, rather were the sum
of stings their tongues could make. That’s all;
and whether you liked it from silk or needle, leather
or gilt, you knew how much you’d split.
You could not be surprised by the whipping-bee’s
results: measured by your pleasure it meant
feeling sore and crabbed next day at home;
the kids announcing they were hitched;
no one able to find the sharpest blade
in the kitchen, chisel gone from the box.
~ Karen Anderson
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