Sylvia, there is no square baby inside the box

The box is in a feverish state

a Japanese opera  inside


hustle and bustle


forty thousand  black

heart shaped faces


Noh and navigation dance




You watched  him plant the hive  

down by the parsley patch


something of the solid weight

the heft of a  child


crouched in your garden    

howl and wail




Put your ear to the hive  

they have got rid of the men


the furniture, the windows

In the golden chambers  


Sylvia      Sylvia

the honey has gone to your head




Note: This poem is a response to Sylvia Plath’s ‘ The arrival of the bee box.’