On Hearing a Childhood Playmate Is On Death Row, Early Spring

By Annah Browning
December 6th, 2013

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On Hearing a Childhood Playmate Is On Death Row, Early Spring

Bees are always drunk
	in poems, bobbing

their bodies in frost-hit camellias,
	who turn brown

eyes toward me, white
	petal rims closing,

closing. My grandmother said
	he came to her once

 as a boy, as a neighbor,
	and showed her

a fish hook caught in his hand—
	she couldn’t take it 

out. She said she didn’t
	know how to. To look

through a screen door is like
	looking through

a veil—we are the brides
	of this world, the sun

shining cold on a bird bath, 
	a dinner plate held up

for the birds by a stone girl
 	with a single

hand, one hand remaining.