It begins on the brightest
afternoon, my body
held in a corona
I can taste the sugar
and the heat of.
At the edge of the valley
wild hyacinths,
violet ones, scythe
through the shadows,
through my eye.
When I reach the hive
the bees cluster
on my veil like molecules
magnified, a code
to the core of things.
When I lift a comb
one bee stings my wrist,
then another,
the venom a note,
that rises into a song:
a tower of spikes
or a swaying stalk
of purpling
blossoms. This must be
what love is:
a pain so radiant
it cuts through all others.