portion of the artwork for Caroline Klocksiem's poetry

Flying things
Caroline Klocksiem

Ragweed and pollen already
stacked inside me
but the bee
keeps questioning
my torso for a place
to live. Am I built

like a hive
from everything around me?

When we leave do we
volcano? If our feet grow

away from us
more separate from us

with the death
that is each foot’s fallen arch

can the body
accept these
arcs as direction?

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 41 | Summer 2013