ANNE HAINES

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.