"Catacomb"
Catacomb
Twelve martyrs,
preying mantises, startle bug-eyed
from the limbs
of blood-smear
crosses, stain the gloss of white
niched walls.
Our families pull
themselves together, drone the faith,
a swarm of bees
obeying hierarchy
by degrees. Black rods in a cone,
we narrow and squirm,
lash into hands
with beeline vision. A buckled pose
swims over our laps:
we hold sitting-room still
and fill our tunnels with the queen’s
collecting tune
until drama pauses,
silence buzzes: relax for honey or brace
for sting?
Crawling the carpet,
low-pile crosses bear the gravity
of the hive:
snagged
by-and-by, our sweet hereafter
is a caterpillar wounded,
forbidden
to die.
© 2007 Laura Polley
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