Rules for Life as a Bee
Each bee must be her own queen,
not live in a colony.
Burrow in the ground along a path
or build the nest in a dead plant stem
or stack of empty flowerpots.
To line the nest, cut neat circles out
of rose leaves and petals.
Stock it with nectar and seal.
Leave the young but tell them:
you have one year, including the season
when you’ll sleep beneath a screen of wax.
Once you’re out, dance.
No music
Plants, I’m sorry there’s no music.
No Vivaldi to calm you while you’re watered.
No Puccini to rouse you to blossom,
Holst to march you to symmetry.
No Charlie Parker tickles you into variegation.
No Mussorgsky reminds you of the wonder of the world,
and its madness.
I still can’t bear to listen.
But do you hum to some far-off celestial tune I’m guessing at
in the silence
where I flourish?
She leaves me
She leaves me in the house without a car.
It’s laundry day and dishes must be done.
I’ll make some suppers for the coming week,
do taxes at the scarred kitchen table.
She leaves me in the house without a scar.
I deal with cash and dirt as I’m able.
The table where we eat is scratched and stained.
I leave it all and go out to the sun.
The scar I wear is elemental, one.
Unlovable: survive by being meek.
And disappear where others strive to seek.
She leaves me as I strain to guess her star.
I leave her with small grace, as I’m able.
The house will hold our voices, low and strained.
The scar supports the work I do, have done.
She leaves, I leave, neither going far.
