Pompey, 67 BC
       

It was swarm season—of honey and carnage:
one moment men scavenged, the next they were carrion

under an orange sky. It was swarm season
and before you could count to ten, quivers raked,

stars aimed, a thousand twigs rustled, fell.
Honey and carnage, divesting us of reflex.

It was swarm season. In the sweltering evening, blood
was scented, pure delphinium. Honey and carnage:

Delphi once prophesied, The man who eats meli chloron
can speak only truth. Whose sentence was this,

the pleasure of green honey? Ribs flashed,
tongues wagging, sliced off, churning, stumps for speech.

It was swarm season—over before anyone
could bray. But a few mouths were open in surprise.

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Copyright © 2014 Sally Wen Mao All rights reserved
from Beloit Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission