Maiden Mead

It was when September, ending jealous, eats bees. We
nervoused again for the island in a boat still made of rocking.

With bees follow-
ing. In   fluid zum,

oar-sweeping rhythms of dip and churn: driblets of bees, bees
as sung humidity—condensed over wings of boat. Above

lake we did not hurry, bee and boat were dim punishers, chiders
or nuns of it: the keeping on. Wore we shushing cages and

veiled we eyes with mesh,
or fingers kittening? None

of it. We, trembly and suspect, eyed the sun hung
over water like comb dripping out just how a woman wants

bees. Summer fermented, parted lake hair—and
in bee spillage—took our island. And though

we had been in terror brave—we were made
nebulous, voices hid amidst a hymn of dying

drunken bride. This, now, is how
we say to see it: bees eaten.

Copyright © 2006 Kirsten Kaschock All rights reserved
from Court Green
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission