after Kaveh Akbar
Four bees were found in a woman's eye,
surviving by drinking her tears. They say grief
is good protein. I could not make this up.
And why act surprised? The universe
has already written the poem you were going
to write. Then it winks like this
at your efforts to pollinate anything
with your melancholy, its sticky black legs.
My sister calls. She's heard it too,
it's as we suspected: a woman
is one kind of apiary. Today the world
seems full of them, small and improbable:
this poem, for one.
Well aren't there bees in it?
Soon, I'm convinced, my doctors will notice
the noise of their wings, the veins
clogged with honey—the whole hive
I've harboured, and who've
been making a meal
of my heart.
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