By Jordan Corley
Hive hums somewhere behind the left eye.
Drip of gold down the neck —
molten sugar rots in afternoon heat.
Today reached 37 degrees
A helmet of bees—no straps, just teeth.
Frantic needles in a dance you didn’t learn.
Buzz like loose wires chewing a lightbulb before the electric shock
Waxface on backwards again.
Chin too tight, lips too smooth—
a stranger’s expression cracked into yours
What is this mask?
Static plays in the ribs.
No signal. Just hum.
Sweetheart syrup leaking through your shirt.
Sunlight shoulders melt like a popsicle,
truth thick on the floorboards and legs tremble. Wings twitch.
You never knew how to be soft without sticking.
Skull on a paper lantern. Cracked maps inside. The names are gone.
The bees don’t read anymore and the buzzing grows teeth
learn how to say your name. They say it wrong on purpose.
Memory smells like vinegar. Old wings. Empty comb.
The queen fell asleep inside the walls. Smoke under the bloody
door but you left the suit on the hook, And wore the swarm instead.
Buzzing until they name you honey
and forget you were ever human.
Jordan Corley is an American writer living in South Korea, where she is pursuing a Master’s degree in Korean Language and Literature. She finds inspiration from Korean writers such as Kim Hyesoon and American writers such as Emily Shafer and Kaleigh Hanson. Her work has been published in multiple online literary magazines, and her debut chapbook, “The Day Before Yesterday,” is scheduled for publication in February 2026.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 