1

To the rest of the world, the Beekeeper’s daughters were known as Poz and Slitheretto. And seriously, no one but the bees cared spit for Slitheretto’s nightly readings of Wittgenstein and P. Hoffenstauffer at the Children’s Department of the Schtuffen Public Liberry. No children were involved, anyway. Poz declined, always. Even then, the sweepers would take off the night to slip the Womyn’s Wash-room for slinky dips of the old honey pot, or, sometimes, on those nights, to paste Rorschach blots on the tile with the wax of bees. They were pussyfoots, all.

In fact the bees did care. And Poz’s tingling puns about hive minds did nothing to flatten that care. How do bees care? By showing their love.

2

Seriously, this was not meant to be a tract on the love of bees. More to the point: Slitheretto often wept at her sister’s inconstancy. Anger! And Rorschach was in agreement here. So P. and S. fought, teeth and sharpened toenails, careful of the eyes. Seriously ...

And they fought
No hive mind or green melody
Even so, even so

The old tyme name at the Liberry was The Department of Children, but that was discounted forthwith upon the enactment of the Ambiguous Preposition Law—one, two, three, four!—which deeply rooted in the jurisdiction of the Western hemisphere. And on those rare nights when Slitheretto would sing the early propositions of Wittgenstein to the melody of “You Lost Hate, But I Found Love,” Poz would be drawn to the Liberry like a bee to ...

And did they not always
Fight
So even, even so

3

So you have got to be careful. Careful how you name, careful how you spell, careful of your puns and prepositions. Seriously, this was not meant to be a disquisition on ethics and discipline. But you don’t want to get stung.

Poz did, prey at last to the guilt that sistered her inconstancy. This here is a lesson on cognitive dissonance and sibling rivalry. And so on that fateful night, ‘neath an old tyme moon and the Eastern hemispheric stars, she sneaked through the shrubberies with Rorschach’s stick to knock the hives from their delicate frenulums, membranes and moorings: Crick! Crack! Crocko! Slitheretto’s poppy alto carried from the Liberry window, open throat to that winter’s eve—

[ladies only on the chorus]
Oh, philosopheee
Is a battle ‘gainst bewitchment
By means of lang-gyu-widge …

Poz died before sunrise. The father, in his grief, ate an entire chimney brick. And the honey burned. It always does.