THE HIVE
- 7 days ago
- 1 min read
By Margaret Bethray
They are lifting away the winter,
layer by layer,
to reach a face that sleeps in ether.
Your pupils dilate, better to absorb
the radiant nurses who revolve
and press enamelled tablets to your lips.
You feed indulgently, grub-like, marvelling
while the world’s sugary lights
unravel their thrill and shimmer their silks.
Turning over in drugged sleep,
you hear thin wings rustle a rumour:
once you filled the shape of a man.
But the cell walls split and you were married
to the back corner of your mind.
In the mire you coupled with a fugitive self
and bred new selves like burnt-out stars.
When love ingested you, you let
the angels file away the tooth marks.
O rare object, you are packed in cotton.
It is only at the bottom that the iodine
leaches through the box.
The voice of your fear is this colour;
it rots through the bandages, a dead language.
But the demigods are diligent,
and swab at the mouth of your wound.
Like bees, they apply a sort of wax
and wall you up within yourself.