the blueshift journal

I’m starting at the center, a puff of chemical dust

as I approach the hive. And god was here once.

 

Lately, I’ve been thinking about hunger, about bees

and pollen, the way a roach will eat a roach

 

I’ve poisoned. My hands don’t need strength,

residual pesticides, pressurized cans, flush and kill.

 

Discharge and faith. And I know where to find

the honey bee queen, in the center, deep within

 

the fractal of the combs. She makes her own light.

If god is here then what am I killing, the worker bees

 

driving their stingers into my protective suit,

the gush of guts as they fly away to die. I want

 

to be hungry again, wafers and grape juice,

an apple right off the branch. Following fireflies

 

as I walked home from church, dozens of pulses

lighting the night. Look close and you’ll see

 

the bees look different. And the queen, heavy

with eggs and stored sperm, never stops moving,

 

checking. Is it instinct that makes me touch her,

the way I loved to touch the tails of tadpoles?

 

It’s how I learned to find evolution: lungs, gills,

spiracles. And if I kill this queen, the hive will choose

 

an egg and feed it royal jelly. Instinct and chemistry,

something to serve. Something to protect.

 

The grand design of the hive. I want to be human,

afraid and frail, soft skin easily pierced. I want

 

to be warm, the sun on my skin, sweat on my legs.

I want the light of a candle but only remember

 

the smell of incense. I start here, in the center

of a swarm I started. I crush the queen and wait.