What Might Be Known

Issue 6 | Summer 2021 |



We believed we were bees. We were work and sleep,
work and sleep. We believed nectar and honey.
We believed queen and sting. We believed we were we.

In a recess in the maze wall, a bowl of grapes
offered by a bronze hand. Glass fruit, a cold hand.
It says only I may eat. It points some way.

I became Tiresias, blinded by coins in my living eyes,
lids stitched closed. No tears to river my face, yet
I knew the rain’s fingers. I knew their shove and turn.

You must embroider all rules on your own skin—silk thread or wool—
no thread used for sewing shrouds. You need the map for mending.
Directions speak to your heart stitch by stitch.

The woman holding the edges of her own face in her hands
will force herself to see. I have been promised a way home,
though the bronze hands hold knives.