Fall 2005 • Vol. XXVII No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 2005 |

Nectar

Sometimes I find them when I'm dusting, dead bees on the windowsill where they had beat against the pane, a thin translucent mystery that barred them from the garden, the foxglove and the lily refracting in their mullioned eyes, pollen never looted, nectar never drunk. But once a bee I thought was dead revived and stung me near the eye, my vision tendered to light's touch as any trembling stamen. And venom-tinged, more brightly grew the coquette flower cups.

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