Tavye Neese


Watch citrus avoid ripening, orchids’ jaws
go slack over the girl’s low hum of first loneliness.

Among stems and thorns, where is the hand
for comfort, pitch of voice in consolation?

Here, there is the crack and reach of slow
sinking roots teaching melodies of hide and under.

Here, there are aphids gathering in green clusters.
Buds—quiet, tight—tell of blossoms quick for cutting.

See their restraint—her knees to chest, forehead
to knees, all of them shunning the eyes of bees.