My heart was never good with rhythms, it could
never master being a drum, a timesheet, or a clock.
It was too busy being a beehive: a record
of sun paths, the name of every flower
written in dances, a nuptial flight, the way
I crawled into your mouth hunting for pollen,
a burning drop of bee venom, a beeswax
castle, a queen telling herself
that she ate her infant sisters because
it was war, a thumb-lick of honey
from noxious weeds, the colour of mustard
and old coins and hot sand,
the bitter tang of sprayed blossoms,
irradiated fruits, genetically modified roses,
the old beekeeper opening me with smoke, and
sixty thousand bees shivering with prayer
for him to stop.
