I am an apple heart. I am pollinated. I am ten seeds.
These bees will make my heart a pie. This pie will be good.
I will open a pie store just a mile from my apiary.
I will make apple heart pies. The apples will be ours.
Our hearts will be our salvation. They will save our bees.
Flowers will sprout forth from our nostrils. We will die.
We will leave these bees behind for our sons and daughters.
Voting isn’t enough for me. I won’t waive pitchforks.
I will use torches to light fires to cook pies of apple hearts.
I will love it. I will not walk through walls when I am a ghost.
I will keep my soul in a skep. It will make a buzzing sound.
My son and all my ancestors will hear it. I will die.
I will become honey, mead, brood, a swarm. A worker now.
My soul will rest in a skep, a machine that kills fascists.
Real honey never spoils. There is no other answer.