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You were golden at birth, Ambrose,a swarm of bees settled on your face,leaving behind a single drop of honey. We’ve heard this before, bees landingon the breath of baby Zeus and Bacchus,Virgil and Plato, foretelling sweetness of speech. As sermons drip from your honeyed tongue,we gather nectar, beat our wingsContinue Reading

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On Saturday morning, not too early, really,Sarah and I drove North, up out of the city,to leave it. The reason wasthat on this particular day, last year,both of us broke up with our respective partners.By accident (of course)they happened to be on the same day.Our breakups did.By happier accident, SarahContinue Reading

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The Spring equinoxhas come and gone green shaftsof iris and tulip have stabbed throughlayers of earth. Yellow heads of daffodils and purpleflashes of crocus have opened to the sun.Yet here it is the first day of April and the windchill is twenty three. We’ve had scatteredflurries, and I wonder whatContinue Reading

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Sisters,I would not unwild younor attempt to keep. Look at your wings! Say gossamer& have it be too thicka word for the whir of you! Some fool men define your liquor asdistillation of fallen rainbows, they say,constellations made dew you gather, but I know better- how females strive, orchard orContinue Reading

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As it chewsthroughthe nurseryloaves,hatching broodtunnels throughan immaculate darknessimmured withcareful clippings. Its birth intothe light bristleswith a certaintyunknown to uswho wakeinto an opacityso densely vacuousthat we subsiston sifted memories. Estée Arts Crenshaw is a doctoral candidate in the department of Writing & Rhetoric Studies at the University of Utah. She receivedContinue Reading

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dreamt a country of wild beesduring the usual restless sleeponly, they were augmented by the troubleof domestication, that in mind’s countrythe systems are kept in line, in delicate assemblage when I woke, I wished this world to be madeof hexagonal prisms, a honeycomb we could climb throughand lay up againstContinue Reading

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I am waiting for a day that is warmand without wind. I need a splitfor my mediums, a spring swarmto find my trap and deign to use it.I’ve painted boxes, placed lavendersprays in line to wick the top feeder,used lemongrass oil as lure. Howeverempty my frames are now, I shallContinue Reading

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A firstborn sorrow buffers its descendantsIn the same way early bees in a hiveSmear propolis into every crackEncasing the queen in darkness Estée Arts Crenshaw is a doctoral candidate in the department of Writing & Rhetoric Studies at the University of Utah. She received her MFA in creative writing fromContinue Reading

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Back in the old days,It would be busy, I could still smell the fresh honey…Every car would make their stop. That quick stop to that convenience shop,My grandparents sharecrop.Passengers grabbing honeypots and honey buns. Back in today’s days,It is so dusty.It is like my sunset, rusty. I can smell theContinue Reading