Tayve Neese

Kali’s Identity Crisis

I never wanted bones,
small piles left on beds

by the quick-river,
never hungered for meat,

smoke of pit fires for roasting.

I wanted seed,
germination in my mouth,

clover drawing bees

to the top of my brown scalp.
I remember hearing the buzzing once,

taken in by the thought of honey,
only to find short wings,

the faceted eyes of flies.