if you only watch one bee
at a time you’ll see me
sorting myself as beans
you won’t see winding vine whole hive
you won’t see
my mother chewing on
her tongue masticating mouth muscle
while crocheting leaper’s bandages
for the relief society
while I eulogize roadkill,
pining for divine cultivation
you won’t see how
every May my father buzz-cuts the poppies
like my four-year-old hair
if you’re lucky like me and the east cherry tree
he’ll cut down second
if he loves you like his blue-box beehives
he’ll buy a new one of you,
no–two new ones of you
and plant you like his peach trees
you won’t see me sorting myself as beans
before school starts be
cause he will take out his teal suitcase
and put on his
temple tie
and he will give me a father’s blessing
if you only watch one bee
you won’t see that to me
his register feels very far from a father’s
rather closer to god’s
who is a white wind which whispers
you are a peculiar pest
prescribed no priesthood promise
