Bees buzz like sirens,
I walk around them like a marriage bed
no one sleeps in me but empty shells.

What their stringers did was carve a
cavity right into the center of me. Summer is
not a time, but a place for sweat on chests
and hiding **** under leaves wet with dew.

I am a child, I eavesdrop.
Sunlight does not betray my fabric
soiled from conversations ending in rain.

Then, there are the warning animals:
go home everyone says.
But I have not a home, I have just places for
my sagging hips to lay until discovered.

And most of the time, I am invisible
hiding beyond clouds like snowed mountains.

If it sounds soft, it is not.
Villages are made from mattresses like me:
underground, the world loves tugging
on damp springs and spines while bees sing.