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| Annie Boutelle |
The Rapture of Bees
Suddenly absent, vamoosed, as if
they'd never been, never spiraled
in air, nor clung to each other
through frozen dark, nor filled
the hive with their million lithe
bodies, packed shelves of wax
and gold, and all that honeyed buzz.
Like a child in a bed in Portugal, just
not there — only space in her stead.
Or hair in coils on the barber's floor,
the neck abandoned and chill. Or
the breast with the other discarded
body parts, somewhere in a hospital
basement and only the stitches to show
where it was. How not to envy
the bees? So fierce an uprush, it
can't be resisted, that soaring in air
to meet whoever is coming, the cell-
phone tower bristling with urgent
messages about the time, the place,
and the fake plastic branches are
arms that sweep them in, not one left,
and death is simple — just being where
the others are, a trembling vibration.
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