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’
decrescendo,
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.