Issue 2, Spring 2007


Bees in Thin Hours
by Nanette Rayman Rivera

The ache will find me near white flowers, yes, white and magenta
             in the projects

I find bees gunning down the humble Silent Ladies Tresses
             displaced here among

a thousand brides in water, seven thousand in cement - kneeling
             beside me.

We lie like an argument against the pavement, listen to the bees’

how they bear witness against a life soured, doors firmly closed
            to any light

I could turn to.  How it evaporates quickly in this oven of shadows,
            news to broadcast

that won’t be heard.  Who to cry to and how to cry?  The blackflies
            are biting

your soft under-bicep, honey, and the clouds are singing. Our
            vast deaf ears

lay ringing beside dead brides.  These are thin hours when bees buzz
            in the outskirts

of lives never meant to happen – like this.  A sudden hush catches us
            off guard,

makes mephitic fervor of the night, without whiff of why.  We curl useless
            legs around

poor sky.  Our last magenta inhalation.  There are no words.