Yes, they warned him about the sugar
rush. And no, he didn’t listen. The beehive
sounded much like any radio. Who can
blame him for following it, his calves
twitching with excitement. No one knows
how far he went, though I once raised
my face to the sky & saw a pair of eyes
staring back. They looked exactly like his.
I learned lethargy as a word, for his sake,
before I learned the feeling. Now, I need
a good glucose boost. Please. I want,
please. My last two lovers called me hungry.
So I’m looking at the sky again, asking for
manna. He did it once, he can do it again.
Hello? Hello? I suppose no one is home.
An echo against a kitchen door, floor, sink.
Spice rack. Extra-virgin olive oil. My sacrifice
is the tongue I bite to keep from crying,
mine. One thing about ancestor worship
is your father never shows up when
you need him. This way he, too, is God.
Logan February is a poet and pizza-lover. He is the author of three collections of poetry. Say hello @loganfebruary