air, propped before a vision

that can only fail. I point to the hive

& they stare at my hand.

Rain

Devil’s paintbrush &

buttercup, three days of rain—

weeks

till blackberries. High summer

& no

nectar comes in. Pollen

washes off the lips of wildflowers, wastes

in mud. We are

murderous inside, eating our own

bodies, feeding off the winter

stores. Rot stench rises

from below, the

queen sends us out & we can’t find

our way back, our wings

sodden. We crawl over

our sisters’ bodies, lick mold

from their eyes, the hive

strangely silent, nothing to

occupy us. Even a daisy,

wretched housefly food, reeking

of rotting flesh—

I would wrap myself in it.

Mites

wander our bodies

like fog, with each breath

we breathe them in, they crawl inside

& hollow us

out. How to exist without

air, how to itch this deep

without tearing our flesh apart? All

is placed—the sun mid-

sky, meadow

above wetland—vigilant for what is

larger, warding off

vermin, drunken children,

& still

wrack enters us—contagion borne

on reassuring whispers.

Blind Huber (xiv)

Rare orchid, scant pollen—one could

almost number each drop,

heavy on the pistil, unable to reach

the floor. Summer done,

we move the hive into the green-

house, immense palace

of wax, an empire

poured into glass. The orchids ruin their sleep,

Burnens reports, they fight each other

for access. As a boy

other boys would take my arm & wag it,

force my hand to slap my own

face. Once

boys did this to each other, once I had

eyes in my head, I could see them

coming. Burnens raises a finger, one

by one to my lips, sticky with the

harvest. I name each

clover, stargazer, swamp flower.

Queen (failed)

Foulbrood,

the guards let them pass, I

smell them, but no alarm goes

out. Dank

corridors, weird silence, cold air

seeps in at night. Those

whose mouths adored me, soon

they will come, find me

in comb already full, the box

ripped open, the keeper’s fingers

ranging over us. It’s not

how I want to die. I want

my daughters’ mouths on mine,

I want those who began in me

to suck the air out of me.

Workers (robbers)

Your queen stares blank & im-

mobile, her brood thick

with maggot

& mite. Wings &

scat litter the entrance, you

no longer carry your dead

away. The guards let us

pass, unaware who belongs & who

doesn’t. Simply

part of the dismantling,

we bite

holes big enough for our

tongues

& drink each cell dry. Tonight

a possum

will reach a paw in & pull the

rest of you out.

You must be like

candy to them, cracked open, soft

bodies filled with honey.

Worker (lost)

Half-filled mugs of beer

sour in the sun, thick with

corpses. The busboy flings them

into the sewer. We

have scattered far, to city

& market, drunk on

cut watermelon. All I knew

was nectar,

the long tongues of wildflowers, an orchid