Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

The Hive

by Sarah Weitzman

It throbs
in an outer wall
of a museum.
On display, the nest,
bees and dank honey
one vibrating hub.
Bee-over-bee balls
of bees wrinkle
and smooth
as their black shine
worms in cells and out.
But I won’t press
against the glass
to hear the whir
of drones within.

I know that din.
The day my father
had a stroke
and could not speak,
his bee box came
square, white and locked.
While he died
I sat beside that box.
I understood the hum
of fury sealed in.
I heard the wearing away
of wings against
those coffin walls.
I wanted to smash
the box to let them out
but for fear of them
I could not.
That frantic din grew
faint. The day
we buried him
his bees were still.