It was the spirit of the lion gnashing 
his teeth, biting through a new leash. 
All day at work, trees leaned into the road 
lonely as fishermen. They cast shadows 
into rows of carpenter ants swaggering 
up a hill. Inside a leather bound book, 
stories swarmed and became bees. 

Samson stuck his hands into a carcass, 
licked honey off his fingertips. A lion 
crawled off into the forest to die. Between 
his ribs, a hive pulsed like a young heart. 
Bees strolled each white bone, wanton 
as a railroad track. The summer we turned 
seventeen, we followed the train all the way 
through the small towns of New York State. 

I carried sharp scissors and each time 
the sun sank, I cut a strand of shiny hair. 
I braided it and set it loose to wind, knowing 
birds would weave it into nests. Next 
spring, when we were no longer speaking, 
I walked along each railroad tie and listened 
to finches or nuthatches, titmice or juncos. 

The train hummed like a bee in the ribs 
of that old story. I wondered if you could 
hear the train’s whistle from where you are, 
whether you were tucking a sleepy body 
into bed. I pictured you sitting outside 
on a new lover’s freshly painted porch. 
You’d be moving your black queen three spaces 
forward, contemplating your next move, 
eyeing her last rook.