on the gruesome death of bees, Sonny Rollins's sabbatical, & other incentives for loneliness
by Anthony Thomas Lombardi
in the forest of my final exile
it was loneliness i learned
as darwinian—every storm growling
a kindly greeting,
the black bear scampering
from my body’s bouquet
like he’d been launched
by a nearsighted cannoneer.
the average human can
withstand one thousand
pangs per pound
from bees who dodge
our open hands
to pollinate blooms
we bring beloveds
& produce the air
we breathe. one sting
& the bee will rupture
its abdomen trying
to remove its weapon
heaving out instead
all its vital organs & well
i suppose this is merely
one of the softer risks of joy.
Sonny Rollins once took
sabbatical for two years
between the sky
& the east river
blowing for no one
but the birds
& still found himself
sainted for ghosting
like a living chinese finger trap.
now thousands of people dwell
in the building that bears
his name & stroll
The Bridge he made
famous, blissful as a fist of false pearls
so why can’t i hum
through fields with lavender
in my hair without trampling
at least a few
snakes, without shaking
their rattles in my fists
like hospital bills.
do you hear that?
a zebra finch is dreaming
his songs to life. even in his sleep
he aches for the warmth
of another wing, parsing
pitch & timbre
prudently trimming
what won’t dazzle a mate.
in the morning
melodies charm
even the most unmusical
passerby but sunrise
scares the daylights out of me
so i skulk the bridge
until the sky remembers
there are no mountains
in manhattan, makes the moon
marquee, & bleat an awful tone
a lone blue note
a breath i didn’t know i was holding.
it was loneliness i learned
as darwinian—every storm growling
a kindly greeting,
the black bear scampering
from my body’s bouquet
like he’d been launched
by a nearsighted cannoneer.
the average human can
withstand one thousand
pangs per pound
from bees who dodge
our open hands
to pollinate blooms
we bring beloveds
& produce the air
we breathe. one sting
& the bee will rupture
its abdomen trying
to remove its weapon
heaving out instead
all its vital organs & well
i suppose this is merely
one of the softer risks of joy.
Sonny Rollins once took
sabbatical for two years
between the sky
& the east river
blowing for no one
but the birds
& still found himself
sainted for ghosting
like a living chinese finger trap.
now thousands of people dwell
in the building that bears
his name & stroll
The Bridge he made
famous, blissful as a fist of false pearls
so why can’t i hum
through fields with lavender
in my hair without trampling
at least a few
snakes, without shaking
their rattles in my fists
like hospital bills.
do you hear that?
a zebra finch is dreaming
his songs to life. even in his sleep
he aches for the warmth
of another wing, parsing
pitch & timbre
prudently trimming
what won’t dazzle a mate.
in the morning
melodies charm
even the most unmusical
passerby but sunrise
scares the daylights out of me
so i skulk the bridge
until the sky remembers
there are no mountains
in manhattan, makes the moon
marquee, & bleat an awful tone
a lone blue note
a breath i didn’t know i was holding.
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Anthony Thomas Lombardi is the author of Murmurations (YesYes Books, 2025), a recipient of the Poetry Project’s Emerge-Surface-Be Fellowship, a multiple Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee, among other accolades. He has taught or continues to teach at Borough of Manhattan Community College, Paris College of Art, Brooklyn Poets, Polyphony Lit’s apprenticeship programs, community programming throughout New York City, and currently serves as a poetry editor for Sundog Lit. His work has appeared or will soon in the Poetry Foundation, Guernica, Black Warrior Review, Narrative Magazine, and elsewhere. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife and their two cats.
Instagram: @prettytoneywrites |
