“Spaceman and His Bees” by Wendy Cartwright
Red Rockets
It’s the season of the sun,
and I feel like I’m on it,
the sun that is,
with solar cells at peak absorption rates
the rays can’t penetrate eyelids
or the smog surrounding this moody
fucking astronaut
who just wants to crash somewhere
on earth,
but can’t make up their mind where.
A bed would be nice,
but not this spaceman’s, she’d rather
be in someone else’s,
away from the bullet-shaped indentation
already imprinted by her head,
and her right hip,
but not the left shoulder,
and only if yours has had the nails removed
that she pounded in herself.
The hammer on the headboard,
a permanent fixture,
the scythe handle by the door,
a real “walking stick”,
sewing scissors on the end table
twelve inches long,
in a bedroom-turned-battlefield
with no one but herself.
A person has to sleep to have nightmares,
they need tools when they’re awake.
Wendy Cartwright is a poet, author, photographer, and freelance journalist who lives in Columbus, Indiana. Her travels have taken her as far as Mayan Ruins and as near as the filling station. Her undiscerning tastes allow her to find creative fodder regardless of location. She has been published in various magazines, newspapers, print anthologies and featured in online publications. She has also published four books. With Chris Dean, Wendy is a co-founder of Keeping the Flame Alive Press.
