Mikhaela Woodward
After disease, I'm afraid to take up all the air in the room
In the place I left my keys is a mummified bee, so I ask him
what he’s done with my car. Angry weedwacking
outside, the confused groan
of my heater.
He is dead and silent.
I do not believe in gendering bees but I think he might
respond to tradition
in the same way I am conditioned
to say sorry for daydreaming,
only to get out-
feministed by recent high school grads with green hair.
Thank you.
I didn’t mean it literally. I promise
I am not ashamed to exist. I’m sorry— it’s just—
Everything that begins is raw and mostly
water. Sorry’s all
dried up and feels good in my hands, like
when I pinch his wings and lift
and it takes no effort at all.
Empty
his scab-like body on a wet leaf,
wish him to life, tell him
I don’t wanna die, tell him sometimes
I think sorry
just means wait. I’ll get there when
I get there. Will you stop? Will you
listen when I take the first breath? Will you—
My keys are on the windowsill,
apparently. Nothing is where I left it. My body
is like a ghost
stepped through me and shuddered. Everything
is ominous
until proven funny. I go out,
start my car, stick my tongue out.
I am hilarious! I say.
Hit the gas, enter the world singing
funeral hymns.
Scraping my name
into darkening sky.
what he’s done with my car. Angry weedwacking
outside, the confused groan
of my heater.
He is dead and silent.
I do not believe in gendering bees but I think he might
respond to tradition
in the same way I am conditioned
to say sorry for daydreaming,
only to get out-
feministed by recent high school grads with green hair.
Thank you.
I didn’t mean it literally. I promise
I am not ashamed to exist. I’m sorry— it’s just—
Everything that begins is raw and mostly
water. Sorry’s all
dried up and feels good in my hands, like
when I pinch his wings and lift
and it takes no effort at all.
Empty
his scab-like body on a wet leaf,
wish him to life, tell him
I don’t wanna die, tell him sometimes
I think sorry
just means wait. I’ll get there when
I get there. Will you stop? Will you
listen when I take the first breath? Will you—
My keys are on the windowsill,
apparently. Nothing is where I left it. My body
is like a ghost
stepped through me and shuddered. Everything
is ominous
until proven funny. I go out,
start my car, stick my tongue out.
I am hilarious! I say.
Hit the gas, enter the world singing
funeral hymns.
Scraping my name
into darkening sky.
Biography
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Mikhaela Woodward (she/her) is a weepy, snail-filled writer from the top of a tree in Western Washington. She currently lives in Denver where she writes fairy tales and practices telepathy with her partner and their two cats, Cricket and Luna. Her writing can be found in Black Moon Magazine and Sledgehammer Lit.
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