the bee poems

i suck the honey from his tongue and he drinks it from my fingertips (2008)

Gathering (We)

Listen up:
We have hives to tell you
    (little secrets, little gasps
     little blinking-opens)

Let us in:
Your messy innards
we convert to hexagon comb
Your numb fingers
we fill to brim with buzzing.

A little more:
Spinning seeks axis
around axis swirls
    and builds
    slowly
    our hive
    our home.

Lift your hands:
And ye shall drip with honey. 


Gleaming (I)

The rains part for a day
to allow autumn’s yellow 
to tremble in the full sun.
My love tunes his banjo to the splendor
and I turn my eyelids to the warm sky.

We are gifted with moments
too bright and wise
for our little minds and fragile hearts.

Devastate, devastate, remove the garments
from each second like the leaves
dancing from the trees. 


Gleaning (We)

Can you spare some change?
Can you spare a moment?
We can live on your left-overs,
your in-betweens.
Give us a penny, give us a pause.

It’s true, next we’ll ask for nickels,
then for dimes, we are the petty thieves
of your thinking mind. It’s true
what they say, Give them an inch 
and they’ll take a yard. 

It’s true, poverty brings patience.
We will wait
til the sun sets and the fields
are empty of reapers. We will gather
what remains. We will wait
and watch the light dance gold 
around the ears of corn.

You are learning
that you are only satisfied
when we are.
You are realizing
that giving to us 
is your only sustenance.
You are beginning
to leave behind more and more
in the fields at the end of day.

Yes, pennies, then nickels, then dimes.


Gloaming (I)

Night comes sooner and sooner.
I wake in his arms at twilight.
Bees are caught in the nets
that hang above our bed.

Before we sleep,
we remove our clothes
with solemn ceremony 
and lay bare so we will be stung 
while we sleep.

In the dark mornings
I suck the honey from his tongue
and he drinks it from my fingertips. 


Gallows (We) 

Like the trees eat your exhale,
leave this part for the buzzards.

In the half-light of your final hours
we come 
from the horizon, our wings
glittering like coins
in the last rays of sun
Our stings the keys
to all possible doors
Our honey the answer
to all the questions
words cannot form. 

You, child
pendulum swinging
rocking slowly awake
to the sound of buzzing.


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Image by author; Chicago, IL.