A Story about the Bees
after Robert Hass
I still have the bees
she gave me.
I keep them on the sill
above the sink,
stare at them while
I soap dishes—frail
husks dumped in a heap.
If I cracked the window,
wind would scatter
their dead. I’d sweep them
with a broom and pile
them back in their place.
I keep quiet
when friends visit
my cabin; my chest cavity
full as the blue bowl of bees.
I skimmed off the roses
that first morning,
they weren’t meant
for me; a trick for the eye.
Every story is a story
about the body.
The pines outside
rocked and swayed
when I brought
the bees inside,
their bodies
radiant beneath
the red petals,
twin upon
twin, sharp
translucent wings.
