Dread

What if I look down in the Port-o-John and there is a man under the filth, only his eyes and
forehead ribbeting like a cartoon frog in a swamp?

What if the bees keep dying faster than the synaptic light in my father’s head?

I used to pray that forever had a back cover
until my mother told me to stop
and steel myself against the demons both in my brain and out
demons who leak pesticides into the cerebral channels
demons worshipping rockstars
literal demons above the bed

Droves of bees blink out
dropping midair like paperweights
my father is telling me to turn back the clock again and again
his stories mock the ears
like music from violin necks
or the sound of bees on the chalkboard

My father wrinkling and unwrinkling
My mother’s vertex of wicked charisma
Bees lost at the ark of conversant towers

The man, in the Port-O-John,
demon below me ribbeting,
iris regulating light