Plum juice

Plum juice

The wasp hears tribe in her body,
burns like the center of a matriarch's wake,
sings on fantasies of honey,
curls her wings, flits into bitterest night.

I've thought seldom on pity,
where the city holds casks of sweet cider.
She scents for it, and the actualisation
of a pint surpasses the idea.

You take a picture,
yet the picture never lasts in the mind,
she sends a warcry,
one that never reaches your ears.

Her warriors come gathering,
sisters and brothers buzz.
She's trapped in a glass singing 'community',
knowing it lives where we're free and we'rewild.

And the men on the table opposite lick plum juice
off their fingers and the gaps in between them,
they discuss ancestral history,
long forgotten and frequently redefined -

in various forms we see communion,
souls raised up under Sun,
the puzzle pieces of existence reconnecting,
- a shift, a manifestation of hope.