The Caryatid and the Bees
She stands hammertoed and squat
as a bulldog. Baring her teeth to her weight-
bearing function, she spreads her shoulder blades
and emits sadness through a limestone throat.
Soft bell, her smooth hair done up in a hive is
flattened by the honeycombed platform she balances.
Wax-bulb shadows, not so good at following, precede
her barren brick wall elbows. She is cacophonous in her
disregard to the rock shy swarm salivating between her toes,
worshipping her calcified soul like dumb props while
her hands wrap gently around her porous ankles, ghost
orchids in a wet forest. She stretches spine to crown
of head, stretches spine to pubis.
The holy tongues of bees jab at the ears, slurp
at the breast, suck at the navel and into the deepest
elastic spaces of her wrist and inner thigh.
In her new and elegant upright pose she yields lime
and does pride like a river.
For every one queen, there are sixty-five drones.