Pamela Wax

Pamela Wax, an ordained rabbi, is the author of Walking the Labyrinth (Main Street Rag, 2022) and the forthcoming chapbook, Starter Mothers (Finishing Line Press). Her poems have received a Best of the Net nomination and awards from Crosswinds, Paterson Literary Review, Poets’ Billow, Oberon Poetry Magazine, and the Robinson Jeffers Tor House. She has been published in literary journals including Barrow Street, About Place Journal, Tupelo Quarterly, Connecticut River Review, Naugatuck River Review, Pedestal, Split Rock Review, Sixfold, and Passengers Journal. She offers spirituality and poetry workshops online from her home in the Northern Berkshires of Massachusetts. 

I was invited to dress as my favorite pollinator

            for this morning’s July 4th parade. The last
time I masqueraded, it was Purim. I wore my black
one-piece with goggles, fins, and one of those
Esther Williams’ bathing caps, the strap
under the chin, rubber flower petals flopping—
a competitor for the Persian king’s favor
in a swimsuit contest after he’d killed his wife
for being uppity. The banner across my chest
read, “Queen for a Day—a week, if I’m lucky.”

            Still uppity, I vied today for a royal hive
whose death bodes a global fallout. I wore
my goldenrod No Bees, No Berries t-shirt,
pipe cleaners spiraled into antennae
around my ears, and black leggings striped
with fluorescent daffodil-yellow duct tape.  

            The women cheered from the sidelines,
and most of the men—a Northeast college town,
after all. But in the end, I fear no pollinators
or superheroes, no revolutionaries or counter-
evolutionaries will buzz into town on a tailwind
to salvage what’s gasping curbside. I drop
my placard into a blue recycling bin:
“Save the queen & other female beeings.”

A New Song

            Where have all the flowers gone?
                                    Pete Seeger

Before the Hallowed Return
the Great Howl swallowed
Small Hope’s song.    His roar
stole all breath of her
melody      silenced all relic
of her desire.    He swept ice floes
in the North into sandstorms swirling
in the South      and back
again.    Eons begat eons.    Dervishes
of scorching tumult and arctic
rumble hovered over the Crater
of the Deep      the Howl’s
            henchmen     vigilant.  

Small Hope kept singing      Arise.
You’re not alone. Arise      arise!     
trying to score purchase
within the piercing cacophony
of the Howl.    From Ice
to Desert Age      over and again
she sang until      from both East
and West      the ice thawed
into dew      the temperate dawn of Flora     
verdant      despite the roar
            a first day. 

After the algae      moss.    After fern   
fungi      gingko      conifer      fig.
After croci      honeysuckle      wafting
in the flow of the Great Howl
who paused      a ripple      pleasure
perhaps      imperceptible  
            a second day. 

Small Hope’s song caught his sharp
inhale      flung      Not alone      Arise!
to echo into the ether on her own
breath.    Her voice roused
the sleeping      the departed   
and the yet-to-be from the Crater
of the Deep      animated  

all castaways in their crypts
            a third day. 

Creatures winged      legged      finned
headed home to air      to land    
to sea and stream      soaring
scampering      splashing
Alive      Alive
            a fourth day. 

Small Hope birthed
Big Dreams each day.
Back to the wheat      the Baker.
To the flax      the Seamstress
the Builder      to the straw
the Dancer      to the sky
the Poet      to the wind.
She seeded the Hallowed Return    
a Sabbath of Rejoicing      a new song
fledged from
            the hollows      again.