Piece human, piece hornet, the furyof both, astonishing abs all over it.Ripped, just ripped to absolute bits,his head in the hornet and his headin the hum, and oh he want to sting her. The air he breathes is filledwith flying cheerleader parts. Splitsflips and splits, and ponytails in orbit,the calm eye of the panty in the centerof the cartwheel, the word HORNETSâhow?âflying off the white uniform.Cheerleaders are a whole, are knownto disassemble in the middle of the airand come back down with differentthighs, necks from other girls, a leangold torso of Amber-Ray on a bubblingbottom half of Brooke. The mouths thatcry GOOD HANDS GOOD HANDS.The arms he loves that make the basket,the body he loves that drops neat into them.Oh the hybrid human and hornet, who would aim for pink balloons.Oh the swarm of Cheerleading Entity,who with their hivemind understandhim. Rhyme about the hornet, her tonguein her mouth at the top of her throat! Clapone girlâs hand against anotherâs. Even exchange screams in the air.The pom-poms, fact, are flesh. HornetMascot is hungry, and rubs his abs, wherethe hornet meets the man. Wants to eat and hurl a honey, in the middleof the air. (No that is bees Iâm thinking of.Like I ever went to class, when the showwas all outside.) The hornet begins to flytoward the cheerleaders. âMake methe point of your pyramid,â he breathes.And they take him up in the air with themand mix-and-match his parts with theirs,and all come down with one gold stripe, and come down sharp and stunned,and lie on the ground a minute, all think-ing am I dead yet, where am I, did we win.
For National Poetry Month, The Washington Post presents a collaboration between poets and visual artists for a fresh take on poetry.