Dear Bees’ Knees Friends,

In celebration of Jack Wiler’s poem “Divina Is Divina,” I’m creating a hand-bound  poetry zine of “door poems.”
I would love for you all to submit an image of a door turned into poetry.

You might ask, “How does one turn a door into poetry?” To which I would say, “Any way you would have a door become a poem.” You might…

• Take marker or paint to put words on the surface of a door
• Decorate a door with jewels, glitter, and your words
• Carve characters into the surface of a door
• Find a bathroom stall door with already existing poetry graffiti
• or discover a door with so much character that it is poetry without needing word

Those who submit work will receive two copies of the book and a letter of great thanks. Additional books will be made and left on the door-steps of unexpected poetry readers.

I would love to have the collection ready for AWP! I think it would be a blast to hand out “door poems” at the door of the writing conference. So to make this work, I will  need your images by January 1st. (I also love how this date makes the poems due on a threshold of the new year.)

I love poetry; it is fun!

Please email your photos of your “door poems” as jpegs to NicelleCDavis@gmail.com

Images will also be posted on the Bees’ Knees for poetry lovers to enjoy!
Best to All,

Nicelle Davis

Please enjoy Jack Wiler’s…

Divina Is Divina

My beloved had a friend.
My beloved is Johanna.
Her friend is Divina.
Of course, my beloved’s real name is Marko
and her friend’s real name is Hector.

My beloved brought Divina to my home.
She spoke no English.
I spoke no Spanish.
Of course I spoke a little Spanish and
Divina tried a little English.

My beloved and I have two dogs.
Divina loved our dogs and took them out.
When she came to visit she would stand outside
and cry, Johanna, and inside the dogs would cry.

My beloved’s friend Divina died.
Not suddenly. Not prettily, not like anyone should die.
She died in a hospital in the city of New York
and no one knew her name.

She was Hector Gomez.
She had no family.
She lay quiet and still and faded into the world.
No one in the hospital knew Divina.

If we had stood outside and shouted her name
they would have walked us to the side
and asked us to leave.
The wouldn’t have been jumping up with joy to hear our cry
like my dogs, like Johanna, like me.

So my beloved’s friend met her end alone.
In a city hospital.
With no dogs prancing around her.
No flowers blooming.
Even though it was spring.

You could say, and you should,
what the fuck is this?
You could be angry, and you should.
What kind of world tosses humans in the trash?

But that would be like asking why the leaves
blow in the fall.
It would be like asking why flowers wilt in hot sun.
It would be like asking why Hector is Divina.

Hector is Divina because the flowers bloom!
Hector is Divina because the sun rises!
Hector is Divina because she is.
Because we are.
Because the sun is.
Because we die.
Because.
Because.
Hector is Divina because we need to hear
someone outside our door crying our names.
Divina is Divina.