Poetry: Wounded Bee by Ben Zarov
Is there meaning in nonsense? A symbol hidden in the wound? Ask Ben Zarov—ask his “Wounded Bee” and his silkworm god unspooling the exact measure you need. Whatever nonsense that may be.
The wounded bee dances her coordinates,
the hive receives the message, the colony
will survive, it would survive. Scarlet,
lavender, yellow flowers abound wild and everywhere
defining the meadow we’ve worked so hard to reach.
Somewhere else on the planet people stand in parallel
coordinated rows for morning exercise. One thousand
limbs lift in unison, the turf beneath them is synthetic,
one thousand limbs lower and one thousand voices
chant. Disciplined strokes, there is a right way.
There are many, many wrong ways. Creativity
is not a compliment. Somewhere else on the planet
scores of people occupy a two-meter square,
this is merely a measure of density. The crowds
are like a waterfall in the rainy season. Torrents,
no foam, only faceless faces. Discipline
and a line of thought that unfurls the length
of the silkworm god’s infinite perfect spool.
The empress dabs her lips and a courier scrambles
to be in the right place at the right time. Somewhere
else a hummingbird hovers at a frame rate our eyes
summarize. I do not talk of the things I should not talk of.
I agree they are not for me to horde for symbolism.
The luxury of a lifetime of broken attention creeps
into the present moment, summarized, I am a cartoon
and my thought bubble is too tiny to hold the thought –
it bursts and a wounded bee emerges dancing nonsense.
Ben Zarov is a poet and a research technician in the field of neuroscience.