Burning the Hives

My brother in the meadow
wears a cloak of bees.
Under the bees, he is

sheathed in white gauze.
No room in our house has walls
as white as the white beneath

that hungry fabric of bees. My brother
in a cloak of bees stands
taller than his bones.

The weight of his head buzzes
around in a cloud. He is unpapering
bees from the hive, dressing a thick

tissue of bees over his shoulders.
These bees cling there, droning,
droning on. He teems.

This lifetime of bees has papered
his skin, opened a crisp veil
of brown, heavy bees

over his arms: his skin was pale.
But a cloak of bees wears over his days.

Copyright © 2006 Danika Paige Myers All rights reserved
from Crab Orchard Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission