And the Intrepid Anthurium
Two bumblebees extract nectar, sweet and bitter from the center of the rose-colored petals of a flower which is not a rose. Sated, they thud against the picture window again and again, fixed on escaping with their bounty inside them, into the air behind them, incognizant that the path to freedom has been eclipsed, incognizant that they are drawn to an illusion. With the blood honey in their guts already a part of their rapturous marrow. And distinct.
From Watchword by Pura Lopez Colome. Copyright © 2012 by Pura López-Colomé and Forrest Gander. Reprinted with permission of Wesleyan University Press. All rights reserved.