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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Justin Philip Reed - About The Bees

I do think of them

from time to time—

just now sucking the pulp

 

of a tangerine

the taste of which

is mostly texture,

 

in this spin-drunk season

that seems to forget

—us. —itself.

 

At the job I lost,

their husk carcasses

with the locust bean’s

 

cracked brown pods

rustled on the brick steps

leading into the white-walled

 

hours of computer screen;

their compressed toil

missing from the hives

 

they left agape in the backyard

of the next-door neighbor

who, recently divorced,

 

had brought us the jars

of honey I spooned into teas

I sipped in the break room

 

and watched at the window

as he continued to tend

the needle palm and hydrangea.

 

In the age of loss there is

the dream of loss

in which, of course, I

 

am alive at the center—

immobile but no one’s queen—

enveloped (beloved) in bees,

 

swathed in their wings’

wistful enterprise. They pry

the evolved thin eyelids

 

behind which I replay

the landscape as last I knew it

(crow feathers netting redder suns),

 

their empire’s droning edge

mindless in the spirals of

my obsolescing ears.

 

Beneath my feet

what kind of earth

I’m terrified to break

 

into sprint across to free

myself, to free them

from the myth they make

 

of me and then bury

below their dance

of manufactory;

 

what kind of future

they could die for if

punching into me their stings—

 

what future without risking

the same; and while, in either body

the buzzards of hunger conspire,

 

what kind of new

dread animal,

this shape we take?