weekend-readsThe Apiculturalist

Kimiko Hahn

In black veiled hat and canvas gauntlets
Jean Paucton, seventy, climbs the baroque stairs

of the Palais Garnier opera house
to his rooftop apiary.

The theatrical prop man studied beekeeping
at the Jardin’s venerable institute

then hauled onto the seventh floor ledge
his five weathered crates

swollen with honey, nearly a thousand pounds a year.

“The bees make an impression, do they not?”
he declares.
                     And you, dear poet?

Your little apiary of simile and syntax—the busy bite
that separates truth from Truth?

Do you not weary of the student manuscript,
that makes elegance

but does nothing to sting cousin or twin? You

who do not flinch in or outside your own sweet studies?
The husband’s soft skin? The vial of antidote?

It’s a sadistic occupation, is it not?

 

Raptor

for M

Whether carried off to heaven or abducted then raped
the word conveys transport

and for the great gray owl,
renouncing the belt of spruce in the far north

to follow the red-backed vole.
It’s an irription of historic proportion

so much so that the low-flying hunters
are colliding with vehicles—

a different transport than rapt or rapture

unless one is a scientist or birder
or etymologist

capturing import as it migrates
with rodents.

Literally with rodents, but suffering
a tendency toward the rapacious

which I think was M’s concern
when he asked at an Asian bistro

my thoughts on the proximity of climax to heaven.

 

Space

I don’t understand space—the emptiness,

the distance measured in light.

Take the protostar: I can’t grasp
how clouds of dust and gas can collapse

then suck up more stuff and expand

to over twenty times the size of our sun.

In all this heat and shadow

where did mother disappear
after the car crash? Where

is my daughters’ grandmother
since they’ve learned there is no heaven—

except for needle and pine?

What kind of astral influence is it
where in varying degrees of reversal

a thing breaks down
yet shows no sign of ceasing?

And what now is the nature of her form?

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