By Eleanor Stanford

I fit the walls in place with pliers,
hold them till the glue dries. The saw
hums, dust swarms and beats it wings
around my shoulders.

                    All this dark summer I placed frame
                    on frame. From my childhood I remember
                    nothing. But my sons hang from the metal
                    bars, unfold their bodies, mise en abyme.

Humidity swells the joints. Don't tell me
I've never built anything. I assembled these
cell walls from spit and pulp, I carried
the daub and wattle hive for months.

          The sunflowers bow their heavy heads,
          goldfinches shaking the stalks, bright yellow
          messengers of sorrow: their small flesh
          the smoke of old coal plants.

                    We wed in a field. Clover and wild carrot,
                    and the veil obscuring my view. For a moment
                    I was both queen and keeper, until the hum
                    began -- warning song, epithalamium.

Thich Nhat Hanh says do not ask,
Cloud, when were you born?
Deep hive body, brood chamber:
inside each box, another box.

          I stretch the wire across the wood;
          pull it taut to my thumb's callus.
          In the yard, the morning glory clings to the trellis,
          its blue stars squinting.