Taylor Maruno

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 

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