The Song of the Expelled Insects – A Thousand Tiny Needles Sewing the Air in Samplers of Song, Framed by the Thin Fanfare of a Tubular Tongue

Nick Malone

Right on the edge of darkness, on its very cliffs,
we remember;
we cry for our lost homes.
Over savannahs of stone, across the fields of coal,
through the long years that make an autumn night,
here marching,
(no nests, the sun cold, then gone),
we each learnt how heaven is within one;
how the vast veined windows that had filled our lost hives,
– hexagonal paned, flooding with gold –
could be found in the facets of our compound eyes
that framed the bleak light of the winter cold
as we walked;
corridors that had filled those miracle halls, beneath,
above, the sculpted ground, exist in the spiracle vents
of our walls, surrounding thorax and abdomen, we found
that seem as around us here, in our chitin plates,
as those rooftops of carton overlapping their slates
that we lost.
Yes, heaven is within you –
within your very hide, where every world exists, can be found –
see the spider who pours out his inside
in such visions of stretched filigree
on which to catch and further hang, in
molten beads of green, our exoframes of majesty.
So our queens, knowing this, put on wings one night
and hang in the soft lambent skies
as dragons, hanging,
and from a thousand males in nuptial flight
take deep within a dream of spores, cloudy
and wise as the Milky Way that pours outside, above,
holding all generations, both past and to come.