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 ****** queen
leaving the hive to mate with drones-
the lazy bees who make no honey,
their sole purpose to mate then die.