Leslie Shinn In the Throne Room Kitchen Live dice, the two bees tumbling in the white window under the watery green ceiling, way over the table where the giant sits in the one chair. He's wrapped his poor feet in doused wool same as his toothache rag, his red brick jaw swathed in liniment up to a rabbity topknot. Down the long, dark kitchen those bees are the big noise now that his head has quieted and the supper creatures have cooked— furled black flowers at the ends of arms, the tails curled close. With bread and meat measured, the done day too is counted and marked, its throw of cloud beheld, its lot of sun. The chances of its share and want, enough.  The bees cease, and the night folds in from all sides.

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