by Grace Massey
In Celtic tradition, families tell their bees everything—births, marriages, deaths. Bees are also messengers between worlds.
Three weddings this summer
goth princesses, groomsmen in kilts,
bride swollen out to here.
The voles consumed the lily bulbs, tulips
were shipwrecked. But you know this.
Over lunch Doris let slip that her dogs
will outlive her, they’re old
but not ill. We whooped it up then—
rosé, French rolls, honeyed butter,
memories of dancing all day.
It won’t be long now until she sets out.
I’ll dress your hives in mourning,
send you off with news, expect your reports
from over there.
Tell her I’ll look for her pirouettes
in cirrus and nimbus, jetés
that bridge the sky.
Grace Massey is a poet, classical ballet and Baroque dancer, gardener, and socializer of feral cats who lives in Newton, Massachusetts. A retired editor in educational publishing, Grace has degrees in English from Smith College and Boston University. Her poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and have been published in numerous journals, including Quartet, Thimble, Lily Poetry Review, One Art, and RockPaperPoem. Her chapbook A Future with Bromeliads was a finalist in the Moonstone Arts Center and the Jessie Bryce Niles chapbook contests and is available from River Glass Books.
January House Literary Journal 
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