Friday, 24 of November of 2017

Category » Annie Boutelle

Annie Boutelle – The Rapture of Bees

Public domain image, royalty free stock photo from www.public-domain-image.com

Suddenly absent, vamoosed, as if
Beesthey’d never been, never spiraled

in air, nor clung to each other
through frozen dark, nor filled

the hive with their million lithe
bodies, packed shelves of wax

and gold, and all that honeyed buzz.
like a child in a bed in Portugal, just

not there—only space in her stead.
Or hair in coils on the barber’s floor,

the neck abandoned and chill. Or
the breast with the other discarded

body parts, somewhere in a hospital
basement and only the stitches to show

where it was. How not envy
the bees? So fierce and uprush, it

can’t be resisted, that soaring in air
to meet whoever is coming, the cell-

phone tower bristling with urgent
messages about the time, the place.

and the fake plastic branches are
arms that sweep them in, not one left,

and death is simple—just being where
the others are, a trembling vibration.


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