Andrea Rexilius, Séance of the Bees
Feb. 23rd, 2026 08:31 am
I found a flight pattern, a ritual, a trace, a beehive, an infinite knot, a way to write and revise, and revise again. A way to resentence the sentence my sister and I had been handed. To change the story by telling our story. To enter a wound. To face it again and again until we are transformed by it. Until we see it clearly and move it through our body.
My sister and I are not related. Not by blood. But we are the same age, and we are both named Andrea. Her mother and my father married when we were 10. I always thought of her as part doppelganger, part mirror-image. I was jealous that her mother fled with her in the night, brought her to America. For me it was the opposite. My mother fled to California but left me behind in Chicago with my dad. My sister’s mother is dramatic, emotional, talkative, whereas my own mother is pragmatic, quiet, and emotionally reserved.
I began stitching lines instead of writing them.
A line is a descent, an exception into the underworld, into the root system of language. It marks an act of sensing, of perception translated by the realm of the mouth.
I titled the stitches, Séance
of the Bees. (“As Long as the Stitch will Hold”)
The latest from Denver, Colorado poet and editor Andrea Rexilius is the poetry title Séance of the Bees (Troy NY: CLASH Books, 2026), a book that extends the title section of her prior collection, Sister Urn (Portland OR: Sidebrow Books, 2019) [see my review of such here], writing through and around the death of her sister, and an ongoing grief. “To engage with séance as a form of research. As a way of calling forth,” she writes, near the opening of the collection, “a way of uncovering the feminine. Not to speak as, but to speak alongside. Not to decode or decipher but to create a cacophony. A woven tongue of one. // The collaged poetess as source text. The she as sorceress.” Utilizing collaged text and image, I find it intriguing the way that Rexilius extends this conversation through her own response to grief, to her late sister; furthering what doesn’t or, really, shouldn’t easily or quickly leave, but, as ever, takes the time and the process that it requires, on its own terms. “My sister has to come up again.” she writes, to open “What Asks Us to Be Formed.” “It’s the way repetition works. Something dives down. Another thing comes up for air. To create a hem. Confine. Piece of cloth edging around you. A blank page folding in on the circumference of your body. The subject is one of enclosure and one of breath. To be drowned inside a particular story. The story that is your un-telling.” There is such a physicality, such a tangible quality to Rexilius’ lines, enough that they might hold one aloft, or pull you in. Such heft and heartbreak, one might get lost in.
I’ve been an admirer of Rexilius’ work for some time now, as she is also the author of To Be Human Is To Be a Conversation (Rescue Press, 2011), Half of What They Carried Flew Away (Letter Machine Editions, 2012) [see my review of such here] and New Organism: Essais (Letter Machine Editions, 2014) [see my review of such here]. There’s such a lyric through her prose, a prose held as poetry, and an interest in constructing collage into such a layered coherence; one that thinks through from a foundation of human empathy and interconnectedness to others; one that has always held an open heart across a fine intelligence and an ear for music. “She will be carried from the flowers of one language to another.” Rexilius writes. “She will be carried downstream to a cave at the edge of the river. Feel behind her stone pathway and mossy roof, inner cathedral singing with the voice of a witch.”
The Way the Language Was
The day the deer died,
I was alive in my house.
I was alive in a watery
field
of glaciers. In the realm
of birchwood in my
throat.
The day the robins wept,
the day
foxes ran from the woods
on fire.
I was alive in a decade. Sometimes
dreaming of another
region
was my religion. It was
a place before trees,
prior
to the flame. When the
deer died,
I was in my house
dreaming. Then
the drought came. Cessation
of sound. Flames as red
as apples
lodged inside my throat
hissing.

