This was the model to which I held:
a bee in its hole like a gasp
in my throat. Silence or dirge
as the petals unclasped,

dusted with blush at their folds.
This was the standard—I'd speak no word
when, after your long death, a thrill of bees
thrummed into the air, the chord

of their wings blaring flowers out.
This was my theory—I had no other—
the yard like a harlot, but you
still dead. Spring was a terror

of sensuous things—in my throat, a song
where a stinger hurt, where quiet belonged.

                                                      First published in Meridian, 2001