Frances Atkinson lives in Melbourne. Her poems have been published in Heat. queen isabel sitting in the drawing room no bigger than your thumbnail queen Isabel sucks a bon bon sleepy a novel, lost in the folds of her gown madonna pink, virgin blue all the childish colours hair smelling of burnt lemons sleepy spitting the toffee high in the air bunched satin as she arches her neck a fresco unbalanced for a moment sleepy now putting off bed – the wardrobe witch behind winter furs drums her fingers sheets turned down, sharp as envelopes invisible bat snot smeared end to end unlaced, Isabelle cups her hand a china bowl wishing for a night of sleep her sweetie, just a thin disc under her tongue Teaching Bees to Sting The size of a furry knuckle they career around the graves thwacking into the palms their drone a kind of dawning you sit on the steps dusted in gold sucking the rough side of mint leafing through the guide – a litany of spirits until one targets you from a distance maintaining eye-level, a black knotted thing it travels as if wading through water a lurching bee in love with only you spitting out the leaf, your conical hat slips off as your wrist flicks forward in the stillness the only sign of violence done is a hollow pok – unconscious now beside your banana drink we wait for another bus and pass the time with a miniature fan that gently divides the black and yellow fur