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Where Honey Comes From


ISSUE:  Spring 2015

When my daughter drizzles gold 
on her breakfast toast, I remind her 

she’s seen the bee men in our tree, 
casting smoke like a spell until 

the swarm thrums itself to sleep.
She’s seen them wipe the air clean 

with smoke, the way a hand smudges 
chalk from a slate, erasing danger 

written there, as if smoke revises 
the story of the air until each page 

reads never fear, never fear. Honey
is in the hive, forbidden lantern 

lit on the inside, where it must be dark, 
where it must always be. Honey

is sweetness and fear. I think 
the bees have learned to embroider, 

to stitch the sky with warnings 
untouched by smoke. Buzzing 

is the sound of bees perforating the air, 
as if pulling thread through over 

and over, though the thread too is air.

1 Comments

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Melissa Uchiyama's picture
Melissa Uchiyama · 2 years ago

This is a poem, rich and exotic, though the space is just outside the window, just outside the home. It is mystery---a bed of sweetness running into and from a plume of smoke. Gorgeous images. Beautiful breaks. 

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