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26 The Gospel of Beauty Bees have made honey under the ribs of the dead, flown from aster to goldenrod. The honey they spin is dark and bitter despite its crystalline sugar. Little remains yet skin’s memory stretches across these bones, a cave these bees congregate in like the earliest Christians who hid among the catacombs, afraid to be found out, afraid death might not offer the beauty of the honeycomb. For Mary Rose O’Reilley ...

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