sweat bees

this is how i like to be eaten;
not with teeth or tearing flesh but
with a mouth the size of a blink.
my father was the one who told me
that the small striped bugs were
"sweat bees." they gave us 
two little moving crowns as we sat
on the park bench beneath 
the old oak trees. gold & obsidian.
they do not really 
feed on sweat but my father believed
they did. offered himself up
to their feast. taught me to do
the same. the creatures never bit
but they did tickle as they traversed 
our arms & our necks. 
i wondered what we were 
to the insects. were we kin?
i think we were. a part of me always hummed
in the hours after. the sweat bees
were not around long. usually just
a few weeks in the sticky summer.
when they left, i asked the trees
where they went & no one had an answer.
it is always best to leave like this.
a mouthful of salt. a thrumming ghost.
i have not been feasted on 
for years. i wonder if my father has.
does he go out to the park alone
to meet the bees? do the bees notice
that he is alone & used to bring
along with him another brethren? 
do they know i am hungry too?
also called to make a knit a coronation
where our hair meets the scalp.