Thin and wan at
home for seasons before he passed, the beekeeper in the eulogies flew far and
wide to harvest his meals. The radio tells us that positive flowers draw
negative bees into a perfect harmony of electrons—the pollen fairly leaps into the
leg baskets! The world is more complicated than you think.
I cried hard the
whole time and nothing soothed but the animal thrumming of sound in my chest
and the chests around me, barely a bee space to be had in pew nor aisle of the
little church. One soprano held her score in one hand, her other index finger
down the collar of a small boy, who turned and turned and turned a little
sprocket before his eyes, working below the cloud of music, trying to
understand.
A hive draped in
black—
the beekeeper’s
funeral.
The bees have
been told.
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