Liz Moran: Telling the Bees (for JoAnn)

It was considered rude … to quarrel in front of bees. 
     — Kaushik

You will
introduce yourself
to the bees.

It is required,
not simply asked.

The Bumbles, the Altecators, the Africans,
the Daisy Pods

Even the Carpenters,
those purple, dark gunships
who drill the wood
above your door.

Tell them, too,
when honey
is not enough.

Your emptiness
depends upon the bees.

The particles
of your soul
reflect
all the necessary bees.

All bees
are necessary.

My mother
once held a bee
in her mouth.

An old carnival trick,
she said.

Once bees
enter a doorway
you may live in that house,
for as long
as they wish.

Their wish
is your
permission.

You may smoke.

When your father dies,
the bees will tell you
what to do next.

You will receive instructions
about what to sing,
what to withdraw from the bank,
and who shall mourn.

The bees
will help you build
a catafalque.

My love
is a bee
who beats
with wings
of sulphur.

My friend
is a sunflower,
who bees
surround
with joy.

Pollen
is a thought
that lasts
forever.

My God
is a bee
who leaves me
twice
alone.

© 2020 elizabeth star dylan moran