painted poem #15/21
Temple of Bees
After my friend Baulo drowned, she lived to tell about it. It’s just like they say, she told me. Your life flashes before you. But it’s not what you think.
No tambourine chorus of Bollywood dancers. No elephants in turbans or burst of butterflies from a painted box.
No, what buzzes through your body are a billion worker bees, preparing to swarm off with their Silent Queen:
stopping at a fire hydrant to tie a shoe; in line outside the movie house as the snow lets go; mincing onions at the stove, splatter of rain against the glass. And your father looking up at dinner, asking you to pass the peas.