Sonnet with Character Triangle

You were a doting bee on purple asters
and whenever I opened the back gate trying
to reach my Subaru by the garage, I disturbed you.
We could’ve pruned a path, but I didn’t want
to remove your favorite spot.
Love was an overgrown hedge like a waterfall
of grape tendrils and a swell
of some red vine my landlord declared
actually invasive. I was mad at love for growing
once I sat on the grass in September
trying to write a sonnet about you
inside the fence’s sentence, wondering
what I knew of love at all, if it always meant
displacing or feeling displaced.

Sonnet at a Noise Show

Love was a self-serious noise musician
whose set elicited trance-like thoughts about fifth grade
and how its boredom generated elaborate stories
for you about the Allen Bradley clock tower
you could see out the tall, bright window
at the end of the hall where Mr. G sent you to sit
as punishment for talking in class. Sitting again
at the noise show as an adult, you could totally walk
out whenever you wanted. As an adult, your control
and self-agency has never gotten old,
but tonight, you feel a heartbeat in this seat. Love
teaches you the instrument, though noise is everywhere.
Like your little cousin said with great lament, “School is ruled
by the bell.” Love, however, rules by noise and love.

Sonnet with Opening Door

The windows in my classroom got prettier each day
all autumn–poets never get tired
of talking about threshold, beauty,
decay, and doesn’t every one of us write at least
a-poem-per-autumn in Wisconsin about leaves?
Nightmarish genocide feels far away because I’ve decided
it’s too stressful to pay attention. During class, the power goes out
again. In the break room later, my colleague will say,
“It’s like we’re in Cuba,” yet it is so distinctly United States
that I always panic some shooter has turned out the lights.
I walked my class outside. The purple asters still flowered.
I read about Israeli soldiers bulldozing Palestinians alive.
Part of me has known this all along. The part of me is dying
who thinks art is enough.

~

Freesia McKee (she/her) writes about history, place, gender, and genre through poetry, creative prose, book reviews, and literary criticism. Recent work has appeared in Cleaver, Fugue, Puerto del Sol, petrichor, and Pensive Journal. She is the author of two chapbooks, How Distant the City (Headmistress Press) and Hummingbird Vows (Bottlecap Press). Freesia works as an Assistant Professor of English at University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point. You can read more of Freesia’s work at FreesiaMcKee.com.

Image credit: Butterfly visits purple asters. Photograph by Alexa Soh, 2023.

Author’s Note: Last fall, I found myself writing queer sonnets by the dozen. These poems wonder about bisexuality, belonging, our relationships with land, and the experience of failing to translate our innermost desires to the people around us. Looking at these sonnets a couple seasons after writing them, I see the speaker searching for hope in a world that often feels desperate and despairing.