In the cold
There are no bees in the winter field.
They sleep somewhere, waiting for warm weather,
for the dry places we leave behind
in old boots and empty boxes.
Stars ice in the night sky.
I only feel my hands
when it’s your blood
pumping. In spring, bees
rest in flowers when the work’s
been enough. Fuzz-cozied in pollen,
their legs hold on so they won’t let go
of each other. What’s outside,
love, can wait. We’re in bed,
in the cold. Our feet touch.
The planet spins.
You lie softly on my chest
and we breathe our air
Matthew Herskovitz is a Jewish writer from Baltimore, Maryland. His biggest inspirations are deep image poets, like James Wright, and science fiction. His works have been published in Interstellar Literary Review, New Note Poetry, The Shore, Radon Journal, The Lovers Literary Journal, and elsewhere. He has upcoming work in Strange Horizons.