Fantasy Suite
Lillian Dunn

Sexual Fantasy In The Time of Colony Collapse

We are transporting 25 million bees to North Dakota to feed on the only unspoiled clover in America.

You're a weary beekeeper. Resigned already to mass extinction. I'm your apprentice. My bag is full of scientific texts smudged with chocolate from late-night reading. Anyway it is very hot in the truck. We are in the Badlands. I lick the icing of the last gas-station donut from my fingers and just then you slide your hand between my skinny thighs, keep your broad thumb on pointed pubic bone and palm pressing me calm as smoke in a hive. One by one the bees are floating through a hole in the cab. They decorate my ears. They cluster on my clavicle like dark flowers pinned to a new white suit.

Sexual Fantasy In A Czechoslovak Apartment Block

I am an aging child prodigy and you are my cello. We sit together in the Eastern winter dusk. Here in our empty rooms it is blue very early. I've been waiting all day to saw my bow across your strings. Now crystal droplets tremble from the chandelier. I clench you tightly between my gartered knees. Varnish gathers in sticky beads at your seams. Across the courtyard, the neighbor watches us through sifting lace.

Sexual Fantasy in Suburban Cincinnati

It is 2002 and I'm slathering myself with lotion on my front lawn. You're the stoner who gives me a ride to school. You stand in your driveway, keys in your hand, watching my legs gleam in the sun. What we don't know is that the odd man on the corner has been secretly building an exotic animal collection in his basement. Ten minutes ago the beasts broke free. He's lying faceless on his kitchen linoleum. My palms smell of freesia and fresh-clipped grass. Then a roar and a cougar sprinting golden down the street. The bloody chimp screams and swings through the screen and around the flagpole. Madly we stumble over the fence and into my childhood treehouse. Clutch the grimy blue tarp over our heads. 24 hours later, when they find us naked and dovetailed, we won't open our jaws to let go.

Lillian Dunn is poet in Philadelphia. She co-edits APIARY Magazine, an all-Philly all-ages literary journal, and writes with the Rogue Workshop.