Telling the Bees

Someone has to do the thing,
to say the words aloud
to the hive in the eaves⸺
“The lady of the house has died.”

This house has become
an empty, withered flower
at the mercy of every storm
that threatens to darken the sky,
to break stems in its hard grasp.

As girls, we blew dandelion seeds
into the wind
and set our wishes free
under summer clouds.

Who can say
what is planted?
What is eaten,
or harvested,
or drowned in puddles?
Everything is a circle
of fire within
a circle of fire.

The dry earth holds our bones
inside of it like a mother
who keeps baby teeth
secreted away in her sewing drawer.

She has to remind herself
that we were small once,
and all of us could fit safely
inside the circle of her arms.

Amber Decker is the author of three full-length poetry collections. She grew up and still resides in the Eastern Panhandle of West Virginia where she makes her daily living as a licensed massage therapist and Jikiden Reiki practitioner. She was the recipient of LA's Cultural Weekly 2015 Jack Grapes Poetry Prize and has performed her poems in coffee shops, bars, laundromats, art galleries, cemeteries, and other curious venues all across the USA.