Bethany Reid

Her Honeyed Mask

Her mask was made of bees and belled
with song, honeyed all the heavy noons.

In rain, it dripped from eaves
of barns where swallows tucked

their heads and dreamed of sun, where cows
dreamed of fields of fragrant hay.

Her mask was striped velour, black and gold.
If candled, it was less the wax and more

the flame. Her mask smacked of apples,
squash blossoms, calendula. Like any mask,

it masked a raft of sorrows. When she
kissed her mask, it kissed her back. 

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