"Beauty will save the world." —Fyodor Dostoyevsky
I could write a gorgeous poem
about the hollow hives—
their many minute evictions,
their delicate wax-paper brittled
& lifted like makeshift kites
by the warm evening wind—
but beauty will not save the bees.
Late morning, a drone buzzing
listlessly against a sunflower
rotting on the stalk, pale motes
of mold coating its fur. Dark
bands interrupted so the drone
almost resembles a tiny skull.
I hope that one day, every fig
hatches like an egg. Its wasp-gut
yolk molted into so many gold
-maned bees that its knuckled dark
skin opens, an illuminated window
spilling blades of honey into the night.