hardhack—small, glabrous, beaked,
she’d tramp under shrubs,
black hawthorn, doubly serrate,
mid-rib above deep green
she kept tucked close to her chest,
letters from the good doctor:
Only the apical ends
…galea unfolded to reveal
Aunty Maria Told Us
Search for the Dove Tree, follow pocket-ghosts
—Davidia involucrata, three children chanted,
three replied, pick and pick—
at night, encounter, the last with such stories!
Once upon a time, long ago, Grand-Mère
travelled far-away-Eastern: tiny shops,
hidden shelves, a book, a trader, first
to describe. Oh, Night of the Story,
tell us more, tell us cordate and acuminate.
Help us journey, save us from the toothed margins,
no balms for bitten.
Glabrous on top, Grand-Mère said of the story-tree,
downy below.
Male, duo-male to female,
big bracts, the base, one long as the other.
Creamy white? We asked, together sang,
ovate pendulous.
Aunty Maria said, Never count on flowers.
We searched a monument with names.
This is what was told, handed down, petal to petal:
large drupes, woody crested seed, red bloom.
Aunty Maria told us to save seeds—
She told us to search for the scientists.
Scientists on the Run
Now, at that time and in that place
we, sent to observe, wrote down
their songs, those roving brigades
Women of the Cleaning Class:
Required to Recite, as directed from Consortium:
We can see, in the pulsing places
Traces of his mordant graces
Where his tanks grind and crush
Scornfully, placate the dust—
We hid our data in abandoned shacks.
First, we measured for bees, then they died out.
Then we collected rain, droplets burning skin.
No snow on the mountains, bridges torn down.
The shelter sat where the wind bit sharp
a crook-joint of land outside rows of—
There huddled a heifer, her calf
ruffled brown hide
pressed close, a young goat, a fawn
three hybrid gazelles.
We’d not last long, past fire, the things lost
like this.
In the Dry, We Find Our Moments to Rest
Afternoons, side by side, counting Carder
Anthidium on white clover, borage, bellflowers
outside Rentalsman, tennis courts blackened—
to be spectator: luxury. A book, opened,
laptop and free access:
Sun of disquiet. Position calculated. Bombini’s dance.
Where it once stood, gate opened, Bombus mixtus
Blackberry, buttercup, fireweed,
hairy cat’s ear, thistle
Of demonstrations, nothing. The populace, un-
willing, no more, the people, dis-
satisfied, uneasy, intent on survival, a dis-
parity, only in the coveted sectors behind
barricades. A ground offensive.
Our Comparative Study: The Beauty Bush
At noon the tennis courts, wet with rain, rare:
we counted eleven honey locust,
branches thickened with moss.
Six bird nests, omens—forget-me-not—
Long-tongued, the distance between
Short-tongued, not quite reaching the blooms
Kolkwitzia amabilis, signals of distress.
The glossa with terminal flabellum:
In long-tongued bees, the lorum is V-shaped and the mentum is
In short-tongued bees, the lorum is not—
Alone in her condo out by the Good-Bye River,
a woman, chair-bound, reaches for cardamom,
brown hand trembling—
Mornings we sit side by side, her kitchen table, Rentalsman home.
She asks us to read: the scattering scents of a Great Companion,
bruised Time unheeding
Our Observations May Well Go Unheeded
Before the first Catastrophe, to keep track of—
yew bushes, simple varieties mass-planted
These trees could not know April’s time of dread,
the cold, a keepsake, all such portents.
Parks regulated; Consortium yielded. Autumn. Long the dry—
at the community garden, only one hive, small masons’
colony-Heriades and struggled for months.
Each time of day telegraphed
messages, sent according to slant of light, rasp of wind:
If summer, direction turned, where each follicle would rise
(and wind, with its name removed
If against winter, bend,
where a hood without fur,
(many gathered to melt snow, before poison
Toss a little dust! No month end safe enough to ward off
behind the tennis courts, sheltering ditch, three Douglas firs.
In August, girls with sticks would beat out the nest
abandoned. Not one person would swear to seeing
the swarm.
Battle Song of the Streets
We that assemble: Consortium banned.
Cardo, stipes, galea, we whispered.
The City, our essence, cacophony,
pitched battles, informers and miscreants.
Our footsteps crushed wild thyme, boots cracked cement,
ropes to scale upwards those high walls.
We wanted to be counted yet deplored
repetition: stick to stick beatings, blood.
Children as young as ten years old coughed, screamed,
Freedom fighter, terrorist, who’s right, wrong?
IED baby, your bombs, our arms, boom!
When they came for us, our bruised hands held
pass cards once coveted, once accepted
at the steps of public buildings where scores
of protest put down. Many generations.
Outside Perimeter walls, Beggar Boys,
Sword Girls, too, battling Guards of the Fifth Gate.
There came a time, when soldiers rode, guns cocked.
By then everyone yelling the same words:
IED baby, your bombs, our arms, boom!
IED baby, inside, outside, room—
And then those children crying, masks ripped, torn,
Freedom fighter, terrorist, who’s right, wrong?
We just want enough to eat, been so long.
Night after night huddled at the Fifth Gate
we let winds breathe, cardo, stipes, galea
around condo cranes, we wandered, spray cans
in hand, our heads bent, eyes downcast.
No one left to believe we were once scientists.
After Curfew, Two Masked Scientists, Roaming
Now these two were loved above all else.
And what form, what shape did their touching take?
We asked in at bars along bombed streets, searching:
we drank nectar at a tea shop along old Cordova Street, waiting
we counted months, Time’s dance, each end date auguring
mouths could function as antennae, lips to teeth, to sac or tissue—
most bees and aphids, some birds, too, we wrote.
We revelled in words, signposts, to inquire,
simple as Hallmark greetings.
Down Robson we strolled, oblivious to newscasts, incoming pervasive
Outside where once the old library, Mega Virgin CDs and DVDs,
a busker strummed his blue guitar, and two women, hand in hand.
We ran the length of the park named after a football player become elected.
Waiting for curfew, we slid into sleep, under a sun that would harm us.
Proximal end of—and neglected in the literature.
Once too often after hours, picked up.
Arrested by the Investigator. Kept.
On the Desk of the Investigator
At these times, the Sun’s illumination,
warmer than previous—
We took these notes, measurements forbidden,
all instruments, loaned.
Banned from Assembly, we as researchers
moved to stairwells, backyards, basements—
Perimeter, demarcated decades:
hyssop, woodland sage, penstemon—bee nests
contraband, we gather, those forbidden names:
the Tribe, Bombini, genus Bombus, Cresson:
appositus, bifarius, centralis
scrapped, crumpled, torn, tossed, found,
our travels to her streets, we recorded
Pacifica: those allowed those Outside—
in giant letters, Consortium’s eternal message:
We can see, in the pulsing places
Traces of his mordant graces
Where his tanks grind and crush
Scornfully, placate the dust—
Inside Detention Centre C
The young woman sat rigid after her beating.
No salve soft enough.
And wore glasses.
Outside, Patrol assembled nightly, and regular.
Our young girls grown up under Rentalsman,
said Aunty Maria. We held our masks:
O moon, your sad steps
Again, the Investigator:
we longed to feed him
larkspur, large-leaved lupine,
wrap him blueweed, viper’s bugloss—
In the lab, thumb edge to screen, began to decipher.
And swipe in, left, and again, swipe.
Rhythm defined an axis.
Everyone knew to keep their eyes downcast.
Orders for Surveillance
the necessary documentation.
Now an official, native to central
Informant for Rentalsman, events warning
heads bent, a cigarette, thumb to index
finger, not to point, to expound, listening:
murder, abduction, attributed to,
underground, away from,
Perimeter—
hours the rocks to warm, hours released
abandoned nests, where bees built their wax cups.
This plastic is to water
this framework is to subject
this agent is human, commodity
this repercussion, material
argument—glimpsed, only
this object, to outside—
These representations, forbidden.
Two detainees. And their names
also effaced.
Outside Detention Centre C, those boys
hunted down for small crimes, they scream in hoarse voices:
IED baby, your bombs, our arms, boom!
IED baby, inside, outside, boom!
The Curiously Disappearing Document
As found by the Investigator inside this old oak box:
The more he touched the words, the faster they bled to fade
He’d put the parchment down
even dropped it back into four dark corners
He’d pick the parchment up again
each time his fingers met an edge——
From the medical records of———in the year of the reign:
Barrios, camps, Outside Perimeter: lineups, designated areas:
Tower Juniper, Tower Cedar, Tower Ambrosia
In Tower Ambrosia, a young girl, her name forgotten,
no one calls her, she is never spoken to—
Small build, dexterous, black hair, eyes slanted at their corners.
She never laughs, head bent most times, building things.
She calls them Finds. Her teeth, bones, unexamined.
Afternoons the heat: dust, that acrid curtain, wind whips red,
she finds places inside culverts where no streams
fingers fast into hoarded, stolen, saved:
her six wheeled machine, scrapped aluminum,
prized at the site where once Safeway,
The Battle of Kingsway, a song—
Fireside, she calls her toy.
There is no one around curious enough to ask—
Unnamed, without words, a series of lines, her pauses, dot-dash…
Long miles away, further down the coast, at Consortium Lab JPL
the designers study data, fascinated, curious and excited. All their codes.
Taken from the Notebooks of Aunty Maria, After the Science Trials
Not to be believed.
Those rumours.
My idle tales.
About the good doctor, nary a word.
Techniques for measuring abundance
although Apis mellifera L. and leafcutter bees
Megachile rotundata F., not native
Not a drop of honey, not a morsel of wax
—that very day the people of Kingsway began to rise—
Although not permitted: asters, yellow mustard
I have taken shrubby veronica, white clover
I am still able to transmit:
purple toadflax, sage and calendula
Perimeter assigns a schedule
when the rain falls—
leaves bear holes, burned.
—and at first light
they made us watch a thousand suns
collide———
Our Testimony About Aunty Maria
Yes, she was Outsider
Yes, she was kind to vulnerable others
Yes, she took risks, defied order, resisted
Yes, she yearned for something
Yes, she was willing. And sacrificed.
Yes, she, curious, made mistakes
Yes, she stood up, at what cost
to herself.
Yes, when asked, we told the Investigator
In the Before-Time she was a housewife.
He didn’t believe us.
To Be Confiscated: Three Hologram Plates
Plate #1
We Told
Ourselves
We Knew
This Day
Would Come:
Plate #2
After that first bomb, they tried to help us
Surveillance drones sent self-care packages
air quality and running water tests
proved inconclusive: we restarted though—
One day a mother ran out to the park
Look, she said. I’m just tired of all this:
little by little, we turned things back on
Ladies from the Patch ’n Mend Brigade laughed
Each you time you work your faucet, look twice
Keep your buckets handy, rainwater counts!
We learned to dig shelters, hoarded supplies
Those Patch ’n Mends mocked us; these chains will end
Consortium restored our wireless
at least our thumbs could scroll androids, and then—
Plate #3
A thousand cities, those streets, where houses—
and inside, closed circles, families, hands clasped
—and shake, soils into space, water pressure
on—and tight, tilt and slide, rupture, great waves
—then the houses fell, and c
ities collapsed
from deep inside Perimeter, we heard:
They filled our bee boxes—they slashed our hives—
we’ll come back—in twenty-five-nine-two-oh
—and shake, soils into space, water pressure
on and tight, tilt and slide, rupture, great waves—
Come ye in, airborne, they whispered, lips bled,
after, masks and hoods, masks and hoods.
Song of the Scientists
Side by side.
We never dreamt to walk with vagabonds.
And so, we took rooms in the city and—
We were reduced to very little
Months earlier, we drew the tarot (terror) card.
There was no going back
We had lost almost everything
Everything changed and happened at
Reasons were obscured by fancy
We told ourselves the worst realizations:
Dawn: most mornings brought pain
We knew we were surrounded.
The only field wherein we might—
Walking the length, a perimeter
Gesture as migration
The men called out to us and we ran away.
Later in the month, the moon
Vilified, we looked to the sky
Only to see a broad-faced blow-up doll
Full cheeks, thin lips, high heels
Bramah and the Beggar Boy Page 4