by Monika Cooper
Cassandra combs a section of her hair
and watches from her upstairs window bars
the gold of evening clotting in the West
and thinks about the bees. Winding out long
the honey of her head, she smooths again
the caked and crumpled page to read the signs
in her imaginary almanac.
That bees are vanishing means nothing good.
An ignorance of causes holds the land
deeper and deeper in its druggy sleep,
while fall enfeebles the tripartite queen
and groggy worker on the window screen.
She whispers, hum, Then let the land have sleep.
Herself, she dreams of meadows clocks forgot.
And hears in sleep the icy sliding screech
that avalanches scream when mountains rot.
Original bio from Spring 2015:
In another age, Monika Cooper delighted in disrupting a special pair of spectacles. Now she squishes small children, rolls them in sugar, and eats them like pancakes.