Taylor Maruno would like to thank PLU for the last four years. She’d especially like to thank the library printers for helping her to master the art of patience (and now that she’s five minutes late, also her amazing calves with which she runs to class).
When a Bee Stings
To be one of thirty thousand daughters, servants to a Mother who will never stroke the soft hairs of your thorax—you who each day, hind legs heavy with pollen, could escape to any oak or apple or beech— fly instead to the hive which birthed you—rising in a tidal wave of black and yellow—yellow tissue connecting a lineage that knows no place. Imagine the loudness of it—the chorus of sixty thousand restless wings, generations of black and yellow sisters filling the lungs of living nations—sisters fighting for home. You, one drop in our black and yellow sea—dive deep into that pale, unforgiving skin, not knowing your delicate stinger will be ripped off in a sweet, oozing amber flood of mangled nerves and small intestine, that after your abdomen is torn in two you’ll end up dead— a single black and yellow body—still giving life to the green, green grass.