Lavina Blossom, Needs
Response
Making Whole Hive Mead
The hive was dying anyhow:
the queen laid only sterile eggs,
though scouts still scanned the fields
for purple beesbread,
almond trees in bloom.
The workers kept carving out
their perfect hexagons, marble-white
cathedrals filled with golden light.
So veiled and suited, we first
boiled the water in a cast iron pot,
then caught the bees up in a smoky
stupor, hive humming
like a chapel full of monks.
Too stunned to even swarm,
they kept their posts, fanning
the queen, who barely stirred.
On our knees before the hive,
we paid her court, lifted out
the frames, emptying the hive,
honey, bees and all,
into the pot, a catastrophe
of broken bodies, melting wax.
We kept on crushing corpses
with a spoon, until the cloudy brew
had cleared to amber, tasting
of summer fields, but with a sting.
We raised our cups like lords, and drank
to time and fermentation, bringing
everything at last to proper sweetness.
Robbi Nester
Inspiration Piece
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