reading the bees
i go outside with a question about infastructure.
how long until this house is a hole in the skull
of a dead god? the bees know everything
there is to know about empire.
i believe i am in a dying one
& i am not sure if this is
better or worse than living in a thriving one.
where thrive here is the same as
consume or capture. the bees take turns
singing. there is a hymnal buried somewhere
deep inside their bodies. i remember
when i first heard their prophecies.
i was just a little girl. bare foot in the yard.
i stepped on a wasp & the bees said,
"you are going to be a foot print." i remember
thinking, "no no no." but here i am.
i sleep inside a t-rex foot print every single night.
the bees can see in all directions.
they see through the light sof candles
& in the sweetness of all sugar. they return
to their queen with all the stories they see.
today, the bees are saying, "calliope
calliope" & i just want to know
what that means. the hardest part
of diving is catching the sign before
it is already unfolding. so often i will think,
"oh yes, the bees told me about this
years & years ago." the bees are melancholy
so i cheer them up by buying them rocket pops.
it is summer or it is not. it is the beach
only in the middle of the land.
i ask the bees what i should know
going into this spring & they say,
"wormwood" & "fire work" & "moth."
they perch in a crescent shape
on the window. i see a half-closed eye
or else a wink or else a tepid moon.
the house is sturdy, i understand.
windows full of pies & ant trails.
i reply, "do not tell me anymore then.
i don't need to know anymore."