“Aristaeus wept, when he saw all his bees killed and honeycombs abandoned incomplete.” ~ Ovid, Fasti 1. 363 ff (trans.Boyle)
The wasp is more aggressive than the honeybee,
which dies after it stings. In the flecked
gold haze of his approach, K looks at the hand
on which the insect has landed. The apiaries
hum with suggestive life, even in that blasted
world. Who is their saint? Where are the fields
of flowers opening their throats to cloudless
wind, or vines and olive groves? Surely
there was a moment before it was too late,
before toxic sugar calmed the waters; when
they brushed their hind legs on the threshold,
lifting away from our poppy-heavy hearts.