"Who Will Tell the Bees"
Little brownies, Little brownies
your mistress is dead. . .
—traditional Greek invocation
When you fell, bumbles burst
spumes of blood on the black
and white tiles. They hovered
'round your mind
and all you could do was hum
drowned by the siren’s wail.
Your mouth opened
and closed as you sucked air
through your abdomen, hind wings
fluttering to regain flight. You fought
until they pulled your stinger,
put you down in yellow-eyed sleep.
Look at your face
swollen to an angry bump, mouth
twisted beyond the body’s gloom.
A tube curls into proboscis
in this frigid room.
Let them tell the bees
I will not rattle the keys on the roof
of your hive. They snatched you
from me, left the poison, left the poison
of good-bye.
© 2008 Lois P. Jones (Emusing)
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