In the center of me is happy
colored and layered and taut.
Like the first stitch in a scrim quilt
pulled through layers of scrap.
“A blithe event!” said one.
It is indecorous.
“We’ll need tulips for proof!”
Tack them loose.
“Stitch here with yellow!” said the little bee.
Whiplash is best.
“I have blue. Should I put that in, too?”
On the Gambesons.
“No! Layer on layer of happy!” the little bees circled.
“Until we craft who you are!”
And who I am Not.
Southern Wild 