
I WILL SPEAK FOR THE BEES
The biography of the bees
is written in honey—
Linda Pastan
I rode in an elevator
from street level to penthouse,
a honeycombed hive—
sweetness like a bitter potion,
the worker’s devotion,
the queen’s empty grace.
She wears red slippers
embroidered with dragons,
reclines on a couch
covered with flower petals;
her wings vibrate the air
with the scent of pollen
and a humming noise
designed to drive
the drones mad with lust
as they sign up to mate
with her in flight, then die.
The heart knows
what it wants
but not who it wants—
I will speak for the bees,
the sting of love
fierce on my tongue.
RED PISTACHIOS
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen
those red dyed pistachios,
the kind that stained your fingers
with the blood of Sepastia
my grandmother said,
and I knew what she meant:
our ancestral home obliterated in 1915.
Forty years have passed
since I sat in her kitchen,
at the table with the checkered
red and white tablecloth,
and fire engine red kettle
humming on the stove.
The apartment now vanished,
the whole building, gone
up in yellow and red smoke,
smoldering in the shadow
of the 3rd Avenue El—
now a flat empty space,
Bathgate Avenue Community Garden,
printed in red letters on a white sign
on the chicken wire fence.
Gone, too, the blue, gold, and red
oriental carpets, white lace doilies,
the candlestick phone she never replaced,
the faded blankets, and sagging mattress
I slept on during overnight visits.
Those same nights she gave me
the special goat’s milk soap
to wash the red stains from my fingers,
holding my hand in hers,
the faded blue tattoos
of a cross and her name in Armenian
done when she was just a girl
still visible on her hand—
her skin thin as water, rich as blood.
TO TURN BACK TIME
Who goes there? What’s the word
— Ray Bradbury
I’m standing in the kitchen
boiling a watch,
trying to turn back time.
I have a certain nostalgia
for both the past,
and the promise of a future
with flying cars, moving sidewalks,
robotic homes, and chic unisex
clothing made of silver thread—
My friends complain
about the lack of a cure;
their faces shine with sweat
as they remove their masks,
offering me a few drops
of disinfectant or a glass of wine.
I’ve lost my sense
of taste and smell,
pass by empty
supermarket shelves,
and vaccination camps.
Outside, refrigerated trucks
hold the dead
like heads of wilted lettuce;
water drips into pools
on the pavement below.
The Mayans buried their dead
inside the home,
smashing through walls
and digging up the floors.
I’ve knocked down the fence
between my house
and the neighbor’s garden;
their voices silent,
the world as quiet
as a spider’s next move.
MICHAEL MINASSIAN is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online poetry journal. His chapbooks include: poetry: The Arboriculturist and photography: Around the Bend. His poetry collections Time is Not a River, Morning Calm, and A Matter of Timing are all available on Amazon. To learn more about Michael go to his website here
Categories: Fiction/Poetry, Uncategorized
Outstanding suite of poems!
Thank you, Richard
These are wonderful, special, exceptional..and very powerful. I love the bees, so rich, and the wonderful grandmother with all the red echoes of blood and loss, and love. And of course the last, the plague poem. All stunning!!
Thanks so much, Mary
The three poems are beautiful, but I especially like red pistachios.
Thanks so much, Barbara!
Michael–I should write about your work at the Armenian Mirror Spectator soon if you would like. Link your books and to your poems on this site, which I love–both the site and the poems. I am at catamian@gmail.com drop me an email when you get a chance. i too remember red pistachios (always thought they were red as a kid, then green as the ice cream, they are just brown it turns out lol–I think). Congrats again. BTW I grew up between 2nd and 3rd Ave and 80th street–officially pre-gentrified Yorkville/Germantown. The real gentrification started when they took down the 3rd Ave “L train” that you mention–long before i was born I think. The neighborhood is barely recognizable today: all gawdy condos, nail shops, overpriced italian restos and nail parlors lol…Congrats again, I have read your work before–it is always fascinating.
Thanks, Christopher – I sent you a email as well,
My most recent book of poems (2021) is A Matter of Timing: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0974KY6Q7/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=A+Matter+of+Timing+Michael+Minassian&qid=1624060122&sr=8-1
Also published in 2020 was Time is Not a River: https://www.amazon.com/Time-not-River-Michael-Minassian/dp/1946460044/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=michael+minassian+time+is+not+a+river&qid=1591020983&sr=8-1