the bumblebee god

he came to pass each tuesday night last year
in a daze of thrum & tremble. 
offerings balanced in every corner:
nectarines & spare socks & silverware. 
he was my father, i was certain of it.
those coarse gloves. his hovering stagnant 
above the dirt. this was something 
only a father could achieve. proximity 
to intimacy spattered & blurred. 
watched his mandibles working. chewing
sweet sweat from mail man faces. tired from
his all-day yielding honey. worship should be
reserved for rib cages. they're strewn 
in the forever field like discarded jeeps.
rust in the jaw bone from sitting out
in the storm. my father used to 
take a spoon from the cupboard & 
press it to my forehead, telling me
to open. fed me like a baby cicada.
not yet ripe enough for screaming.
we all want to believe are fathers are god.
or, maybe, we're terrified because 
we already know they are. in the old testament,
the bumblebee god squashed the workers 
with his thumb, telling them each 
it was their own fault for not working
hard enough. i know i do not work hard enough.
tuesdays swim past like elephants. 
my father, a sky ship. a drone now.
dropping flowers in the eaves. not taking
my offerings. who feed you now?
whose fruit do you dismantle?
honeycomb crash like dinner plates.
we could have been glass-winged 
& eternal, couldn't we have? the lie is
that thrones are passed down. a god
is a god is a god. a daughter is
a dumbwaiter into the sugar bowl.
she's waiting still for the spoon.