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Poetry by Renee Alberts 

Renee is a poet and an active art-scene collaborator/performer in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.  Visit her site.



© 2009 Renee Alberts





Palm Sunday


Our yard this morning is full of wings                

that close and spread to map

their lungs’ pulse

as they drink,

veiny stained glass, red

as a hand held up

to the sun.



tomatoes go to vine.

Cabbage whites suck nectar

from their blossoms—lotuses

adrift on the chaos of

morning glory vines spiraling

hosta spires.


The cat stalks a monarch

feeding on zinnia.

She folds its wings

between her paws; this

is how we pray here, love—

with claws.






My mother’s arachnophobia releases me.

Now an eight-legged star

hangs from dragline anchored

to corners of my living room window;

I leave the light on at night as bait.


Bumblebee tangles with net, veined

wings mounted on steel thread.

All its weight and force thrashes against

the glue of trap.  Quick work of sharp legs

wraps shroud   cocoon    body bag;

her body pulses as she feeds


honey   breastmilk   blood.

I don’t throw the switch

or draw the shade.


I used to sneer as

my first lover

pulled off

each mosquito leg

then dropped the rest

into the web.




My Ex-Father Eats a Live Honeybee

                                                                                              A tiny spark has singed a single hair on your arm.

                                                                                                                                —Schmidt Sting Pain Index


We used to run so fast downhill

we knew how satellites thrill

reentering gravity.


When we stomped bees in clover

we learned a stylus’s hot pierce,

her body’s last shudder.


But when you stood in front of the sun

like a blackspot and dropped a live bee

on your tongue, could you taste nectar

smeared on her needle feet? 

Did your glacial teeth

crunch her downy abdomen?


Is it true her wax paper wings tickled your throat?

and she tasted like smoked honey?










All work is property of Renee Alberts.




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