The Bee's Song

Looking down: Ten tilting toes And two stories. Trimmed lawn. Looking up: Some blue solid sheet above the roofs, Cut by a white flash, And I slight my eyes. My hands stick to the wooden strips Like a T. Between the roots of my hairs And the creases in my fingers, Honey curls inside itself. One bee, five bees. They circle round my aching ankles, Up my shaking knees, And into my half-tied shirt. Their flapping wings against my blossoming flower. They march up the back of my neck, The tune-- a shrill bravado. The shaking assault of a shimmering shriek Slides my hands from safety, Leaving a sweat-stained residue And a piercing scream.