A Kindness of Bees
by Cassy Welburn
I am running in the stubble
of a grain field
towards my father’s voice,
skirt floating like a flower-bed.
I am running to the combine
stopped on the hill,
my father shouting
a jar of lemonade in my arms,
skirt flapping time.
I am running with the cold jar
of lemonade sloshing against my skin—
and step into a bees' nest, uncover
the sting of the earth, like the smack
of a belt, my skirt flying.
I feel the slam of my father's voice
against my name, the bees on my skin,
running with sweat,
I'm yelling, my knees pounding—
I am losing—
that is the swarm of me in the air,
the cold sound of my voice
sloshing against time.
The combine is parked, lemonade
is running down my legs, spilling
into the ground, the grain, as my father
comes towards me. There is nothing
in his hand. Here is another secret
I've unearthed —
the storm in his face can be traded away.
He says my name, the bees in my hair
Subterranean Blue Poetry