Apiarian

My father grows a beard of bees. In the apiary he makes love to the queen and for supper we eat honeyed ham and baklava. My mother cries over cornbread, which we sprinkle with pollen. When my sister Carol grows allergic to the stings, she swells like a marshmallow. Father tells Mother to ship her off to our prehistoric aunt's bed and breakfast, but the droning bees lull his language to sleep. Carol writhes on the floor as we rub honey into her skin. The bees continue stinging. I tell her she is alright and she stands up, rolls up the rug, and starts to play patty-cake with Joshua. When I begin to grow bees on my chin my mother cries. Father teaches me to shave in the summer with the razor his father used. The bees fall off one by one into a bucket of water. The queen sees this and flees to Texas, horrified. Mother buys a heifer, and we eat meatloaf and drink milk from then on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

S p r i n g G u n P r e s s 2009

editor@springgunpress.com

 

 

 


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