Beth Dulin

This is Not a Love Poem

A pile of dead bees collecting in the corner of the windowsill. The sun dropping low in the sky so early now in evening. Remembering a white horse named Guardian Angel. Listening to a telemarketer from the Midwest quoting the book of Job. Setting fire to a pile of old letters in the bathroom sink. Nightmares where all my teeth are falling out at once. A cardinal repeatedly flying into the kitchen window. The feeling that I’ve been unknowingly anesthetized in my sleep. Needing a username and password to access what I’m thinking. All my attempts at getting closer to God being ruined by my cynicism. This heavy veil of despair over everything reminding me of your absence.