to bee

i have been 
thinking about 
the honey comb

with all its
little segments
& all its little 
hideaways.

call me octagonal
& eight & ocho
& i'll crawl 
in my six legs
counting 
the sides 
of the world.

i want to live
in an eight-sided
room where it's
quiet & made
of sugar & 
no one knows
i'm there 
besides the queen. 

i would pray to her
that someday 
i'll come back 
as the yellow
face of a butter-
cup.

the bees are 
dying, 
starving,
laying, 
no longer
able to move.

it is a good 
time to be a bee.

still,
i would hear
the sound of the
hive through 
the walls.

their muffle 
voices sifted  
into poems.

do the bees
think softly
of saving 
each other

or do they
unravel,

numbering 
all they can see
into 8s?

i think to 
myself

1. the last
taste in 
my mouth

2. the amber
yellow color
of honey

3. god who
is a woman

4. how she 
hums & 

5. the feel
that leaves 
in my outside 
skeleton

6. you as
a bee

7. the sugar
left in your 
mouth

8. the slowness

it's a good
time to be 
a bee.