On:

The silhouette of a ridgehalf-clouded by morning fogmakes me think of scorched grass in early fallhemmed by leaves turning so fastI can watch them redden, change like corn or bamboo,——the mind toowatching white-blossomed oregano, bees, flying ants, a moth,it’s only when they’ve all flown offthat the signs of endings becomeContinue Reading

On:

Honey never goes bad. My husband always bought bear shaped honey. He called me Honey, or Hun when he was looking over the paper wanting my opinion—the one that agreed with his. I prefer jars. When the honey solidifies, dense enough to be hung from a chain like amber, it’sContinue Reading

On:

I suppose there must be a godto do with this blue-green earthwhen I am reluctant enoughto consider the bees When I am reluctant enoughto consider the selfless bees,kept and unkept,I think of something more than us Something more than you and I,weaving mystery into secret,like they doturning flowers to wineContinue Reading

On:

—I am the spent Queen, this crown tarnishing.I’m aware you prepare to replace me.You see, I sense royal jelly stirringin the nearby cell, some lowly beesoaking in the bath, her body jeweledas she receives. How quickly I’m deposed.Since I can no longer produce a brood,my body shrivels to nothing. Disposed.Continue Reading

On:

(To be read in a looping figure eight pattern, as a mobius strip) absconding hiveafter the swarm :orient: nectar death —“not born, but rather becomes” dearthocellus; oculus; ocelli open Jihye Shin is a Korean-American poet and bookseller based in Florida.Continue Reading

On:

When the yellow jacket stungmy hand, it died.I plucked out its stingeralong with a portion of its posterior. He bequeathed me his asshole,his apian F-you,and crash dove. He bit the sandand I left a footstep in the trail. For three days, fingers, palm,wrist remained swollen, throbbed.Only my opposable thumb wasContinue Reading

On:

I have gatheredthe honeythat was inyour hives and whichyou all were surelykeepingfor winter Forgive meit was so pleasingso sweetand so pure Come next yearI will certainlycome searchingfor more Brooke Hoppstock-Mattson is an American poet living in Canada with her spouse and ginger cat, David Bryne. When she is not writing,Continue Reading

On:

It seems I now see symbolsscattered everywhere. Like the nightmy husband called me overto look out the second-floor windowto the courtyard below, wherewe could see our hive boxesstacked in the ivy bed, illuminatedby the Harvest Moon. There, the lighton the outside of our house and the copper beeornament staked inContinue Reading

On:

Only one hive made itthrough this furious winterof subzeroes and wind chillbitter disputes andmarital strife; they werethe hardiest, I guess,the colony with a queenbent on survival,in mad love with her brood.After dividing and divisionswe agreed I’d keep the beesand move them down the roadto a friend’s garden: wildflowers,mulberry trees, peace.SoContinue Reading