The bodies of the dead are carried,
massed in their final resting place,
laid away from the hive, unburied.
This task falls on shoulders wearied—
Mahogany boxes, wooden faces.
The bodies of our dead are carried.
Humans go below ground to be buried.
Bees are piled above, in the shade,
laid away from the hive, unburied.
This season, a growing number are tallied—
both young and old with their lives paid.
The bodies of the dead are carried.
The rhythm of the bees unharried,
their last song hums: don’t be afraid.
Laid away from the hive, unburied.
From living to the next they’re ferried,
the hive buzzes—like us, they prayed.
The bodies of the dead carried,
laid away from the hive, unburied.
Ellen Austin-Li’s work has appeared in Artemis, Thimble Literary Magazine, The Maine Review, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel, Rust + Moth, and other places. A Best of the Net nominee, she’s published two chapbooks with Finishing Line Press: Firefly and Lockdown: Scenes From Early in the Pandemic. She earned an MFA in Poetry at the Solstice Low-Residency Program. Ellen lives with her beekeeper husband in a newly empty nest, overrun with books, in Cincinnati, Ohio. Find her work @ www.ellenaustinli.me.