bright armageddon

the bees are dying & becoming
celestial. i watched a migration last night.
several hundred bees all funneling into 
a star. everything dead is bright. 
my aunt joan died & became a bee. she made hive
after hive. she was a woker-- knitting combs 
& remembering nothing of her house on regimental road.
she lost all sense of womanhood there. she only knew
her limbs & what had to be finished. there is 
so much unfinished. the bees, for instance
they were supposed to pollunate the peach tree
growing in between my thighs. i held still for them
all my life & now they're dying. 
it is selfish i think. the night sky is selfish 
with its light & its secrets. the planets--
like the unpetaled faces of flowers. 
what is she doing now? does she remember
eating pretzels on the couch? we wiped 
the crumbs off her chest. the bees laugh 
as they leave clues for us. a single bee 
enters my room & exist each dusk. no sign
of the swarm. i tell the bee to take me
with her & she slips out. escapes me.
if we don't save them we won't have
any food. they are inventing robots
to pollunate fields. this is the first lesson
in death-- replace what you loved with something
immortal. when my family turned into bees
i just learned how to fit inside different measuring cups.
each cup is for a different family member.
1 cup is my family and a 1/3 cup is my mom 
& a 1/2 cup is for both my brothers.
death drives my brother to buy rosaries.
he nails them to walls of his mouth. 
everyone has their own way of grappling 
with the truth about the bees. 
aunt joan became one to fill that empitness.
it is over. something very huge is over.
there are violins playing for the earth.
the heat is melting the last fruit into syrup.
this is why i watch them. i have to see them go
to believe the bees were ever here.
i name the stars after days of the week
until everything is a calendar.
i tell my aunt she was brilliant &
beautiful. she opens her mouth & out fly 
a few more bees. my tongue is a peach
i swallow.