December 23, 2014Among the Yellows, the Faces Slack
My grandfather died
from slicing a hive in half.
An accident. A nest
hidden in a log. A blade
thinned to a dead end.
What followed was a blur
of bees. A man running
wild. Arms twice
as thick as normal. Neck—
vibrating outside in.
He died before my birth,
which is maybe why
I imagine this:
a hundred split hexagons
shining, licked gold,
stirring with eggs, drips,
pollen-dusted legs.
Yellow slits, like lit
apartment windows
when darkness first creeps.
Inside, strangers stirring
about their lives. Who hasn’t
paused, peering in too long,
hoping to see—what is
it exactly? The clicks and hums
they make twirling their little
lives into order? The circles
with which they wash skillets.
The curve with which they read
the news. The figure-eights
with which they rinse
a toddler’s hands. Shapes
and slices of what we cannot
know. Still, we stand
on that sidewalk, staring in,
waiting for something.
And suddenly a man pushes
from his chair, rushes
toward a sound, mouth open,
arms outstretched to catch.
We guess he won’t make it
in time, we jerk forward,
trying to see what
is just beyond us.
Trying to clarify with a honed
blade. A sure swing.
A clean cut into the beautiful
trudge of daily duties,
into that space within ourselves
the hopeful once called souls.
from #44 - Summer 2014