bees

On Sassafras the KEPT ONES

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

                         In the alley toward the strip yellow
                       plant caution tape walking through trash

                                 valley to Iron City Beer no one
                             needs to pack bags stepping on

                    white rocks on Sassafras the KEPT ONES
                           under clouds. Wonder who makes

                    it out alive. Plastic bag with Lysol
                           wipe flapped in the wind when tossed

                        in the trash. Another event stupidly
                               beautiful to admire. When I look away

                     I could crash into sunflower NO PARKING
                                        signs. What masochist places

                                  these in the middle of a long busy stretch
                                      of sidewalk? Now bees won’t leave

                          me alone in this heat

(originally published in Spinozablue, Fall 2022)

Orchard

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

in the orchard, a mother drinks rosé, bites
into a granny smith. the other apples
are rotten now, well– autumn
peels history off barks. the trees become
malnourished skeletons, tiny skulls. forget.
over and over. bees gather nectar
and you almost forget to laugh. they pluck
the fruit. too young to remember, too
momentous. one time he played too close
to the hive– well, life isn’t honey, she said,
even if you are mine. finding a diamond
in a diamond mine. hey, that’s still special.
who’s to say if it’s worth anything. all her
jewelry. diamond in her open palm. show
me. oh, how it glistened– no one asks
anymore. she does not want anyone to.

 

(originally published in Botticelli Magazine, Spring 2016)

My Father Was a Beekeeper

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I always knew my father was allergic to bees
but it wasn’t until his obituary
I learned he was once a beekeeper.

In those days, I hear, he prayed
to his veil– only to re-emerge, hours later,
having danced with God
under every umber swarm.

He was a gifted storyteller
but it wasn’t until his stroke
at seventy-four made me listen,
when his mouth betrayed his brain.

In his final years he would repeat,
the end of bees is the end of man.
So, heaven in the soft petals
scattered in the grass.

Young violets lined his coffin.
All I wanted was to listen

to stories he told before,
details I had forgotten.

Around the cemetery,
bees still glissando

through gardens not unlike the ones
he dug into his blackened fingernails–

honey and sweat, story-
pollinated requiems, harmonies

heard in bountiful
fields of bloodroot.

 

(originally published in Kaaterskill Basin Literary Journal – Spring 2016)

*Nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology