To Go
A magnet in the gift shop
says that sex is like pizza,
so I guess my favorite kind
of pizza is the one I just ate.
On the plate, something
simple: margherita,
named for the queen
who never cared for Naples,
or perhaps for the oxeye
daisies of the same name
that grow all over, one
of which is behind your ear.
I fear it’s the only simple
thing on the table; our
silence tastes of cinders,
our eyes say this
cannot be. So just you,
and me, and then a
lightning bug lands on
your plate. And so goes
our hundredth first date:
just me, and a meal, and
you, and the other firefly
glowing in broad daylight.
The Eusocial Wasp of Queens
lands on the arm of Robin, who
loves them and keeps little
pictures of them on the wall
at the preschool where she works.
Her new friend, a yellowjacket, flits up,
then back again, and up, and then
onto the cup Robin’s got in her
hand, where she licks a drop of
coffee and decides Starbucks
isn’t for her. Or anyone. She
zips up her arm and stings,
hard, into her meat, before retreating
to the trees. The next day, in
class, Robin warns the children
to be wary of bees.
B.A. Van Sise is an author and photographic artist focused on the intersection between language and the visual image. He is the author of three monographs, including the upcoming On the National Language: The Poetry of America's Endangered Tongues. He is a New York State Council on the Arts Fellow, a finalist for the Rattle Poetry Prize, a two-time PX3 award-winner, winner of the Lascaux Prize for Nonfiction and an Anthem Award for Diversity and Inclusion, and an IPPY gold medalist for poetry.