or statue, fifty years thus, to see

if it moves. Burnens

covers the walls with prepressed

comb, factory-punched,

so we can live inside a hive,

my chair dead-center, beside my

queen. Chain after chain

of bodies, a fabric

above, lowering. Forty days

I sat, until the comb began

to press into my chest. Burnens

brought water at first, described their

labors, the tomb being built.

When he could no longer join me

I lived on what honey fell

to my lips. I wanted to see

if the hive moved,

& it did,

but not as much as I had hoped.

Burnens (i)

Never a question of staying, the end

never named. His words

move my hand, he speaks then

listens, the lid pried free, the brood-hum

now open to the sky.

They have a very nice sense of proportion

& the space required

for the movement of bodies. My ruler

measures the gap, I count each worker

& feed him the number. His words

move my hands, but I name

what is seen.

Unquiet

Eyeless he stares into a lamp, bedstraw

left crushed by his falling. They

linger, you say,

to ease your way through, you hold on

empty, white-

knuckled. Look at us now, without

body or box,

the son tangs a pot, begs us

to stay, the hive inside-

out, one mass, we lift,

like the soul as it exits the body,

except you can see us

& we are not quiet.

Q. Can bees be stopped from flying out in the snow in the winter and being lost?

A. No. If you close them up, they will fight themselves to death trying to get out of the hive, and if you put the colony in a building, you will find them all over a window or a door trying to get out. They become confused and are lost.

Q. I have one colony in which the bees have become very mean. How can I get rid of the queen? How can I find her?

A. There is only one sure way to eliminate the old queen and that is to find her and kill her.

Workers (foragers)

After this seven-

month slumber, honey-stupored

& warm, we unfold our

wings, shake off

the hive, set out for buckwheat

& the low flowers of spring. We work

ourselves ragged, each day

going out, to come back heavy

with nectar & pollen. Seconds

collapse. In seven weeks we

fall, dried-out

husks, ravaged lace. Long

winter, we huddled

for warmth, our bodies the lamp,

honey the fuel

that kept us.

Blind Huber (xiii)

Some days

we turn the entrance to face the sun

some days

the queen is invisible one mile above, the queen,

unbeknownst to us, is

dead some days. Catholics pass clutching lilies in

the rain, workers

stagger the fields again, shocked by

each petal. It’s Easter,

& not one of my visitors, learned men of

science, not one

will notice what’s been taken, just a blind

man staring day after day into loud