She tells me
about the hive of bees in her ears.
Their dialect of drone and fuzz
drowns out everyday sounds—
water from the tap
overflowing the bathroom pail,
kettle straddling the blue
stove flame on its highest setting.
I knock and knock on the metal gate,
hoping the radio network
of nerves translates the signals.
She tells me she’s sold
or pawned off most of her jewelry.
But she puts in my hands a box
in whose tissue folds twin
silver peacocks dangle
from French wire hoops,
their tail feathers trembling.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.