POETRY
The Blood of the Lilacs
The bees are not bothered by this rain.
After all — and this is the mystery —
rainwater binds the sweet sunlight, the lush soil,
the snapping spring air that birth the nectar,
the blood of the lilacs that the bees
are called to on this drizzly May afternoon.
The fattest of these bumbles buzzes my face
a warning to approach reverently — or else.
So, I move like an elderly priest preparing the host,
wading slowly into the inner sanctum of the towering foliage
seeking the heavy, dripping, bouquets hidden inside.
You can deny heaven and God exist, but how do you
explain the genius of the bee, the existential scent of lilac,
the truth of rain water? No matter, the bees have assured me,
humming in my ear, that the gates to forever are made of lilacs.
I lay the fragrant cuttings across the altar of the nearby hollies.
One bouquet to fill our home with astonishment and grace.
One bouquet for my mother so that she, like the bumbles,
will inhale the aromatic blood and fly to her childhood,
where lilacs guarded the alley gate behind her home
and beckoned her to venture forth into life.
Glenn Armocida resides in western Pennsylvania. His first book, Tales of East and West Sparrow and Other Stories, will be published in the summer of 2025 by Atmosphere Press. He was a finalist in the Rash Award in Fiction (2024 and 2022). His recent work appears in The Broad River Review, Solum Journal, Black Moon Magazine, Havik, The Watershed Journal, and The Ground Up.
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