bees

i can't always tell bees apart from grandmothers.
my grandmother held out an egg
& tried to cleanse the bees from me.
instead, the egg hatched into a raven.
after, we never spoke of that night on the floor
of her apartment. i drank milk from the cat's bowl.
stood outside by the broken fountain 
& chased every bee i could find. i found my self
only able to speak their language. 
i have woken up in hives. i have woken up
& forgotten that i do not have a ceiling.
i have woken up without any feathers.
a mouthful of bees. my grandmother 
was allergic. she would run from bees.
she whispered in my ear, "i know you are
a bee waiting to get me." i shook my head.
but i also knew the thrum in my stomach.
the hives that always grew in me.
paper city. paper wings. i wanted to have
clean bones for her. she said, 
"i have survived more bees than you."
i wept. i didn't understand why i had
to be a child. why couldn't i just
be a colony in a tree so deep in the woods
that every gust of wind was a grandmother.
in the morning the moon was still watching.
sipping milk from the day's bowl.
i asked her "what can i do to never 
bring bees here again?" i wanted her love.
i wanted her blood. a promise that we were
from the same gushing river. she shook her head.
she said she did not know what i was 
talking about. the raven perched 
on her head. no one else could see it.
my mother asked how i liked my day
with my grandmother & i told her
as little as possible. embarrassed by 
my insects. my honey. the sweetness
spilling from every wound. the bees spoke then
in a voice only i could hear.
"what if you are not one of them?"