You anticipate the bees arrival with that same wonder lust in
your eyes that a child wears on Christmas Eve,
spending the whole month before their arrival planning,
thinking out the construction of their houses,
going back and forth on the decision of where you will put them
in the backyard.
I listen with fascination as you explain to me about the workers,
drones, and the queen, who from a larva you tell me,
feeds solely on royal jelly.
You have become a beekeeper extraordinaire,
intent on teaching me everything you know about bees.
And it is quite funny when you mimic the bee dance,
buzzing around in circles, then abruptly changing direction
and buzzing around again.
I watch you with the same wonder lust in my eyes as you have
when you talk about your bees, feeling a wealth of love for you,
this man tenderly caring for and loving one of God’s smallest creations.
I anticipate the bees’ arrival with dread, careful not to let on how
much they intimidate me.
After they arrive you take out a few and gently hold them up for me to see,
the thought of their sting sending chills over my body.
That night, as we do our own tango between the sheets,
I think of them out there buzzing, buzzing; the virgin queen
leaving the hive to mate with drones- the lazy bees who make no honey,
their sole purpose to mate then die.
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