If they didn’t want hands on the honey,
why’d they build the hive?
Ten thousand soldiers guarding
the queen whose job description
includes keeping an eye on the stash.
Of course there’s metaphor in the air
next to what you might mistake for a misshapen
volleyball lodged between branches, some lesson
about if you really want to sting someone
so they remember, it’s best to lead with the sugar.
But that metaphor is for me.
The bees exist for their own metaphors.
I’m more a plague than an enemy worth seducing.
A lot of good that truth does me tonight
at the tips of four octopus tentacles
sucked this morning from the sea, sliced,
and laid before my wife and me in a restaurant nice
enough to have two guitar players and a woman
who pulls high notes through the soles of her feet.
We call it a honey moon
with honey spread across the dessert menu.
Because I’m in love and can make the music mean
anything I want it to without having to look
one dead thing in its eyes.