Abuzz: Buzzing and Buzzed

 Abuzz: Buzzing and Buzzed

 

Aside from that one time,

When, after swatting and flailing in its midst—

                It, not aware of

Or able to process

My misdirected danger-fear,

                Of an angel simply hovering in my midst,

                It, becoming agitated, not aggressed:

                                A victim in every sense,

                Stung me and flew away; zip-zaggedly,

When I chased it, crying out in affectated,

Regally poseuse terror,

                A dramatic cis-victim,

At a creature who’s villainy lay in nothing more

                Than spreading pollen on its wings and feet as

                                It collected the nectar from the flowers

                                                Planted specifically by my

Grandmother to attract it—and them—

That happened to have a stinger,

                                And a job to do

                                And a queen to dote upon

                                And honey to make

                                And, incidentally, more flowers to                                                                         procreate.

I have not met a bee in whose glory I didn’t abide.

 

Now, in the fashion of my grandmother,

                I plant flowers specifically for bees.

Now, in the fashion of my aunt,

My Gram’s namesake,

                                I dip my finger in jars of local—

Wherever local is— honey:

                                                   “These are natural anti-allergenics,

                                                  The cure for seasonal sneezes”: sweet                                                                 and Laudanum-al.

                                                                Aunts tell no tales.

 

“It’s going to die, you know.

After a bee bites you,”—the cousin-ly

wisdom of a sixth grade elder

Shared with a firster,

                Devoid, as it is, of anatomical subtleties,

                                Not knowing head from thorax—

                                “A bee dies.”

                                                “And also don’t touch a butterfly’s                                                                     wings,”

                                                                For good measure,

                                                                Tangentially, pre-pubescently                                                                             non-sequitur.

 

I bawl in the memory of this occasion:

                In the callousness of fearmongered misperceptions.

I weep at my part in the ignorant disruption of soul’s circles:

                Life going on despite me.

I dwell—take refuge—in the innocence of it all:

                For monarchs and the world-work-interrupted.

I bask in subsequential lightening:

                Earnestly piecing penitence with patience.

 

But for “the talk”, which would be unuttered,

                                Awkward and fumbling,

For several more years,

                When, alas, the bumble-fuzz had begun to coat my own

                Below-the-neck and calves

                                And under-pits

                                And nethers: my own stinger:

Peachily,

The connections between ins and outs,

                                Topped and stung-ered,

                                Heads, even, and thoraces—

                                                Honey and pollen—

Were combed by mystery and unrequited adult-ly innuendo—

                Powdered and dusted  by mythology,

                                Collected on sticky feet and abdomens and                                                                         wings:                            

                Encrusted by experimentation—

Until  we were all busy with busy-ness:

                Procreant and sustaining.

 

Now, in the fashion of my grandfather

                I fertilize when nobody’s looking,

                                                Tilling, making soil from dirt,

                                “look how your flowers grow,

                                                My love.”

Now in the fashion of my uncle,

                My cousin’s father,

                                I share the care for the hive.

                                Men protect, essentially:

Instinctively.

                We tend and reap tales.

 

And in this chastened garden,

                Where apian has been sub-specie’d

                                Amongst wasps and hornets and

                                yellow jackets and honey—

                                                                killer—

                                                                        Frightening in their own

Protectively poisonous penetrations,

                                                In their nuanced, six-sided,

                                                                Prismatic and harvestable,

                                                                Honey-combed and fraternal,

                                                                Drone-dorms,

We, sweeten, sow and harvest.

Now in the fashion of my sister—

                One of two princesses yet remains,

                                Half of a sugar-waxed and mirrored pair

                                Persisting on the throne made whole

                                                In hopeful anguish.

Now in the fashion of a mother,

                The bee who, through circumstance,

                                Centers the hive,

                                                For better or worse,

                                From the sweetest wax’d throne:

                                                Eve’s triumphant tales.                                          

 

And the bees, now, are more scarce,

                Colonies collapsing,

                Climate changing,

                Pesticiding—

                                Ecosystems re-calibrating.

And the bees, now, are more vital

                Environmentally

                Unrequited,

                Missed, save poesies:

                                And eco-sentimentalism.

 

A breathless hum, unavoidable—the wing’d purrs—

                From Aristaean to Protnian to American:

                                The protean force of ancient burmite:

                                Plastic and moulded:

                                         Syncopated and thunderous in numbers:

                                         Swollen stamens bursting forth sun-chasing                                                                         new life:

                                                                In choral madrigal,

                                                                With a villainy un-earned,

                                                                                Misperceived in                                                                                             any sense—

                                                Starred and striped and buzz-fuzzed,

                                                                Regal and coated by the                                                                                                 forces of                                                                                          nature:                  

                                                                                By the strength of                                                                                   God’s plan:

                                A histamine seeked,

                                An affectation un-bloomed,

                                A blossom flittered by powdered wings,

                                A myth debunked by fact,

                                                Enriched by innocence:

                                                             And butterflies (by the way):

                                                             A false-threat                                                                                               denuded,                                                                                          Wisdom enriched by                                                                                     a Constitutional                                                                                    mandate 

                                                                        From above,

A natural law

From within, amongst, and housed

by urns, wrought and fulfilled

by roses, hydrangeas, daisies,

marigolds, and peonies:

                                     Abuzz: buzzing and buzzed.