I cover myself in bees, attract an infinite swarm to my body
a living suit of armour. I accomplish this in under forty minutes.
My new skin smells animal, 100 pounds of honeyed warmth.
Wasp venom is the new cure for HIV, but I hear bee stings
will cure you of sex all together.
With all my openings plugged, drones work themselves to death.
A swarm of swans could never be as graceful as a million points
of fat buzzing energy. I mum each nerve and soften to demonstrate
my insect rapport as the bees beard me genderless.
I don’t know if you’ve heard this but swans are notoriously violent.
I never feel the need to sow myself anymore. I am ever-pollenated
my stomach’s been tracked over and planted by tiny colonies.
The tickle and sting of it: a sensational extension of old news.
Now I ooze like milkweed from all my little cuts.
My womb is a nested catacomb, batted at with a broom.
Boatkeeper, washerwoman, Woman of Bruised Knees. Not today.
I am a honeyfarmer, Queenbreeder. Take me into your arms.
I speak the new language.
I don’t know if you’ve heard but
I have a needle for a tongue.