St. Wolfgang (patron of apoplexy, paralysis, and strokes)

while face-first

in all those blankets,

I found bees in the stuffing,

their stingers lost in the downy white.

they punctuated my bed

like freckles at the top

of pale thighs.

my heart was only

a birthmark, a way

to tell myself

apart from all those

rotten peaches

that attract

the bees.