The Part of the Bee’s Body Embedded in the Flesh, by Carol Frost

The bee-boy, merops apiaster, on sultry thundery days
filled his bosom between his coarse shirt and his skin
with bees—his every meal wild honey.
He had no apprehension of their stings or didn’t mind
and gave himself—his palate, the soft tissues of his throat—
what Rubens gave to the sun’s illumination
stealing his fingers across a woman’s thigh
and Van Gogh’s brushwork heightened.
Whatever it means, why not say it hurts—
the mind’s raw, gold coiling whirled against
air currents, want, beauty? I will say beauty.

Queen Maeve, by Eloise Bruce

Dreaming within these walls all night,
we woke with both eyes open,
barely winking at the morning light.

We shower and sing with the long-legged fly.
Queen Maeve keeps time in the attic,
and the pig-keepers roar in the toy box below stairs.

Turn out the lamp whose fringe rhymes with orange.
Our words wait in sun-melted butter.
We’ll eat our troubles with bubbling metaphor,
punctuate the teapot with boiling time,
hang the wash out on the line.

Today, we’ll scrub and paint the walls
using colors we don’t yet recognize.
The key in the door shines.
Come in. The poem is just here. Come inside.