BEES ARE THE SMALLEST BIRDS AND BORN FROM THE BODIES OF OXEN

I say bestiary and she says what? I say it louder and she laughs, bestiality? and all the diners around us stop, mayonnaise on their chins. Bee is the smallest bird I say and she pokes at her yellow chicken while the man behind her picks up a perfect scroll of meat and reads its sacred contents. What you need, she says, is a pink cone. A pine cone? I ask. No, a vibrating pink cone it costs a hundred bucks and has sixteen settings it’ll get you off baby. The man drops his meat. Did you know they used to put black cloths over the beehives when someone died to keep them from flying away forever? I say, and she says I get it now, you need a caladrius, a bird that can tell if a sick man will die and I shove the yogurt away and the split lemon spins in the water glass and I say what I need is a kingfisher, a bird that calms sea storms as she flicks a pink turnip into her mouth and says you need to get stung good as she stirs her fava beans, and I say I’m done with midnight singing and she throws up her hands, catches them and yells we need more  



​published in Harpur Palate