Telling the Bees I keep the hive you left as a makeshift ribcage, feed it the roots of my blanks. I open my palms— ———————scraps. The rest is stomped ash in my hands every grain smudged teeming into the next. A smattering gesture on an abacus. I am chronic reenactment, anthropologist, spooling into honeycomb the inkblots of legends. Plasma and smarting cedar. A child gashed, … Continue reading Poetry No. 46 – Auden Eagerton