Читать книгу Bone Map - Sara Eliza Johnson - Страница 10

Beekeeping

It begins on the brightest

afternoon, my body

held in a corona

I can taste the sugar

and the heat of.

At the edge of the valley

wild hyacinths,

violet ones, scythe

through the shadows,

through my eye.

When I reach the hive

the bees cluster

on my veil like molecules

magnified, a code

to the core of things.

When I lift a comb

one bee stings my wrist,

then another,

the venom a note,

a pulse of light

that rises into a song:

a tower of spikes

or a swaying stalk

of purpling

blossoms. This must be

what love is:

a pain so radiant

it cuts through all others.