A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
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