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.