"Directions on How to Disembowel a Bee"
1.
Rouse from a short film called "None are Wingless".
Feel angry and misled. The air is a nettled fist
and you've no grace, no elegance. Have only
a friable love for the earth and all its microscopic
workings. You are your Father, digging for gold.
You are your Mother dancing industriously
to a song that soldiers a whistle in its bridge.
That must always lead to a chorus, whereby
the words Fly! Soar! inspire real courage.
But imitation is sweaty work, will grease
the neck as when you would flick your body
under a thirst it did not understand:
the oblique rhythm of sex for the 'reaching
of crisis'. The ache of phantom limbs.
2.
Stir from a poem called: Theorem of Honey.
Feel distanced. Altered. Very stung.
You are your sister cello taping wings
to your back, allowing them a fragile
crookedness. The buzz, zoom, the crash
part plan and part surprise.
You are your brother cheerfully braving
the cost. Special tweezers to torture
what could sting. Out of a swarm, a single
bee would unravel under his law, his battle cry
on wings, straight to the Hive, or to God,
he thought, and being so earth-driven
and wise, knew freedom to be a kingdom
reached by digging.
© 2009 Zefuyn (Melanie Firth)
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