Altered sounds of angry bees and slaughtered pigs were blended into The Exorcist soundtrack.
The ghosts of bees,
angry and off screen,
planted like yellow seeds.
Every night she tries counting them
like sheep, but they won’t stay still,
flitting just out of frame,
hovering between her fingers,
the underside of earlobe.
Their wings like camera flash.
Today the press takes pictures of her
in a garden of flowers in London,
sweet pollen yellowing her fingers.
Their questions, a swarm.
Did the role disturb you?
(Do the bees sting?)
They want to hear oh yes, very much,
but she shakes her head, pulling strands
of honey hair from her grinning mouth.
No, she says.
The demons were never here.
But the hive is thick
and humming her name.
***
M. Brett Gaffney, originally from Houston, Texas, holds an MFA in Poetry from Southern Illinois University. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Exit 7, Penduline, Permafrost, Devilfish Review, Still: the Journal, Fruita Pulp, museum of americana, BlazeVOX, and Zone 3 among others. Her chapbook, Feeding the Dead, is forthcoming in 2016 from Porkbelly Press.
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