Somewhere in South Mississippi
an 18-wheeler full of honeybees
flips belly-up. Most of them never
leave their metal queen, hovering
and buzzing, a fuzzy gray cloud
like a billion trillion electrons
oscillating in elliptical orbits.
Their paths are approximations
of distances from sugary cores
to peripheries of subatomic clouds,
no one brave enough to attempt
a dismantling of the hive.
They seem to be disappearing,
like glue that binds history books,
liquefying into a diluted, sticky gel,
unable to maintain integrity and pass
on all that is required to keep us intact.
John Dorroh’s poetry has appeared in about 60-70 journals, including Feral, Dime Show Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Selcouth Station, and Red Fez. He also writes short fiction and the occasional rant.
