Thrush Poetry Journal
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Ben Kline
​

Seizure
 
The bees knew 
not the cost.
 
Grandpa held
his breath, walked 
 
the yard, his boots unlaced,
copper 
 
aglets kissing 
clover, shoving drones
 
off florets, 
dandelions busy 
 
with trade. He neared
the house, the yellow 
 
oak boards free of white keel,
wing, bone
 
broken wishes
abandoned under cotton
 
thwip. The bees
knew not
 
to say no. 
They gave their life
 
in defense. Grandpa
sometimes cursed, shook,
 
frothed or fell. I knew 
not to  
 
rub his belly
soft from work. He would
 
wake, and I knew
that loss
 
every Sunday I could 
not see you 
 
outside our vestments
hung in the dusty bureau. 
 
I knew
it was not the same,  
 
and I said yes 
to your breath on my neck 
 
that night. Grandpa said 
the race
 
to the door slammed
his heart. I did 
 
not say no to you
or the bee 
 
climbing 
his muddy cuff. 



 
Ben Kline (he/him) lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. His chapbook SAGITTARIUS A* landed in October 2020 from Sibling Rivalry Press. His chapbook DEAD UNCLES arrives from Driftwood Press in May 2021. A poetry reader for The Adroit Journal, his work is forthcoming or can be found in The Holy Male, The Indianapolis Review, Limp Wrist, DIAGRAM, Hobart, A&U Magazine, and many other publications. You can read more at www.benklineonline.com




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