#dishdasha

"I like your soul when it's shirtless 'Cause it's just like mine I like your hands when you're nervous And they're all over mine Show me under the surface And we could cross that line When you stop acting perfect

His daughter pulls on            her father’s frayed dishdasha                                     to go check the bees.

Today she doesn’t            carry the smoke canister                                    with her to the field.

She opens a tray            while talking down their high whine,                                    breaks off honeycomb

and rubs it over            her face and hair, over white                                    cloth, down to her feet.

Each of her hands holds            the crumbling comb like a sponge                                    while she waits for them.

When the first one comes            she feels wings against her toes,                                    a tongue unscrolling.

She wills herself not            to laugh as the next alights                                    on her neck, tickling

her hairs as it walks.            Then they descend to shoulders,                                    forearms, chest, thighs, eyes

she shuts—she feels the            thousand tongues on the cloth.                                    Feather-like wings churn

in her ears, rustle            and hum with agitated talk.                                    Never been so loved.

Her father’s alive,            she’s a torch of burning bees,                                    tears course across cheeks.

When her mother sees            the apparition of bees                                    walking towards their door

she falls on her knees.            It is the end of the world.                                    But when the angel

speaks with her daughter’s            voice she’s not amazed. Mama,                                    how do I end this?

Her mother brushes            bees away from her eyes, pulls                                    them from her hair and

undresses her child,            hanging the winged dishdasha                                    on the clothes line.

Carries her naked            girl into the house to bathe.                                    The bee-like angels

take all day to strip            honey from the robe, return                                    it to their tiered home.

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The Day the Beekeeper Died: Sulaymaniyah

David Sullivan

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"I want to love me

The way that you love me

For all of my pretty

And all of my ugly too