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BEEMAN
Painted white, the beebox slowly weathers, a child’s battered chest of drawers plunked down at the field’s edge. The beeman must know nearly everything about the complex hierarchy within: how drones enter the hive—perhaps through a series of slots, like mailslots?— and how they identify their queen, only to tether her for who she is. Bitten near the mouth, he keeps completely still under his burred coat. The bees have flung a leopard skin over the shoulder of the strongman. And then, intractable as ivy, they dedicate themselves to hanging on, believing he can anchor them, like the queen who had always anchored the beebox in a sea of grass. What hurts him most is the unkempt line they make above his lip, creating a beetling effect, like a comedian’s or dictator’s mustache in need of trimming. Maybe if he stands this quietly, this familiarly beneath their stings, they will not demean him, they will not even be visible to passersby. |
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B O O K S
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