that swallowed me whole. Nothing

to return to, the queen dead, I

pressed against her until her eyes

hung empty. Afterwards,

the hive full of strangers,

none remained precisely me, none

I would die for.

Worker

Clover whispers, each

lavender globe. Nine

days in the fields, then our wings

are shot. Day three

I came upon an orchid, hidden in

a stand of pine—newly opened,

mouth wide,

a lacy white corridor, heaven

after the gloom of the hive. Stumbling

inside, the scent

pulled me deeper, not caring

if she closed on me forever.

Unfamiliar

What village, abandoned, what

farmland, a house you move toward,

how will it announce itself?

A light dim in the upper window,

a baby born open-eyed &

full of words? Years pass, look

around you. This garden,

overgrown. This glass box. There must be somewhere

else, but how

will you recognize it? Archangels

came down once, ordered bees to build

honeycomb in your mouth.

Where you found yourself

was home. What comes down now?

Burnens (ii)

Home was a jar, you could say,

& the jar shattered my hand, or

in my hand, or fell

from it. Whatever lived inside

powdered like

fingerprints, like a moth’s wing.

It will never fly again. I wait at the

foxglove, the bloodrush of yes,

the spot of blue paint on the thorax, my

mark, two miles

distant. Who else

to make his words real? I wander room-to-

field, do his bidding. None of the

rooms connect, except by months, his room

a jar, clear as air.

gloss