The Bee Meeting
Who are
these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagers----
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my
sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they
are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are
smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.
I am nude
as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here
is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am
milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
They will
not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.
Which is
the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is
the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody
is nodding a square black head, they are knights in
visors,
Breastplates
of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Their
smiles and their voices are changing. I am led through a beanfield.
Strips of
tinfoil winking like people,
Feather
dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
Is it blood
clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
No, no, it
is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.
Now they
are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
And a black
veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
They are
leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
Is it the
hawthorn that smells so sick?
The barren body of hawthon, etherizing its
children.
Is it some
operation that is taking place?
It is the
surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
This
apparition in a green helmet,
Shining gloves and white suit.
Is it the
butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?
I cannot
run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
I could not
run without having to run forever.
The white
hive is snug as a virgin,
Sealing off
her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.
Smoke rolls
and scarves in the grove.
The mind of
the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
Here they
come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.
If I stand
very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,
A gullible
head untouched by their animosity,
Not even
nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.
The
villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.
Is she
hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.
She is old,
old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.
While in
their fingerjoint cells the new virgins
Dream of a
duel they will win inevitably,
A curtain
of wax dividing them from the bride flight,
The upflight of the murderess into a heaven
that loves her.
The
villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.
The old
queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?
I am
exhausted, I am exhausted ----
Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
I am the
magician's girl who does not flinch.
The
villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.
Whose is
that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold.