Opening the Hive

The heart’s honey, the ventricular

comb; the surgeon grafts and threads

and hums to himself a bit.

Outside, a golden morning; in the surgical

suite, time’s only sense is the ticking,

how many minutes stilled—

“on the bypass,” I think of traffic

diverted round the city, the whir,

watchful for the mapped exit.

Highway, hive. Bees dance

and waggle, describe the route

to flowers. I navigate from waiting

room to gift shop, the scentless

bouquet, bloodless sentiment.

The OR is sea–green. A surgeon

cups his hand around your heart

in that underneath world.

Tick, tick, buzz. Tick, tick, buzz.

Internal paddles spark. Barely a leak.

The sweetness, sunlight in this oozing,

in what’s set loose to find its way.