I think in terms of bumbling bees, our hive a city—
London city, his city, the city [I can’t help but to think of him always]
where he exists in me, the city where I might what to be, full-
faced and flush across from him at a table with a beer.
London city, his city the city [I'll have a cider, but he wants his Guinness.]
by the end of the night we might not feel it so vividly, but we are alive.
I face the sun; flush, golden. Across, he stares over the rim of his beer.
In his arms each night, I might think that I am the center of the world,
by the end of the night I might not feel it so vividly, but he is mine.
His earth revolves around me. I make honey in the dark of the covers
in his arms. I decide to believe that I am the sun of this world; he, mercury.
Cotton tent a top us, the two of us hot. I wake with honey dried, peeling
like crust of earth. Revolve around me. He and I taste like honey in darkness.
My thighs waxed, smell of honey. Again, I feel centered, but I know better.
Cotton tent a top us, the two of us hot. I wake with honey dried, peeling
second skin. I’m not centric in his world, I am only the center of my own.
My thighs waxed, smell of honey. Each morning, I feel crucial to his rotation—
Here, he exists in me, for me, this city where I might what to be, full-bodied but
I’m second, not centric, he moves without me. I am only the center of my world.
I think in terms of bumbling bees. Our hive doesn’t exist anymore.