Tell the bees that I have died,

They used to say that if the hives weren’t told of a birth or death in the family they would leave the keeper,

So there is no need to lie.

Tell the bees I am no more,

Bees in the house can be a sign of good luck or bad luck depending who you ask and they said much the same thing about me,

Tell them everything it’s what they’re for.

 

Go tell the bees I am reborn,

The house has seen more than its fair share of marriages and births and deaths and tears and spilled milk over honeycomb,

Make sure the bees are warned.

I would tell them myself,

I used to tell them everything, whispered like the breeze through leaves privately, publicly, prophetically,

But now they’re worried for my health.

 

Go tell the bees I was sick,

I have lived and died in this house more times I have cut my hair, but less times than I have wished on stars,

Honey is a natural antibiotic.

Tell the bees about recovery,

I would tell them myself but it is taking everything I have to still love them when my skin makes me scratch and scream,

Tell them healing is a journey.

 

But tell the bees I’m coming back,

Nothing will keep away from hives under trees, beside the lavender and clover and bird-baths where the blackbird fights the robin,

Please tell the bees that.

Tell them I’m getting free,

That when they next swarm in the summer thinking of leaving I will be there better than before and ready to dance with them,

Go tell it to the bees.

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First written for Bombinate. They have a submission soon and you should send them your poems.