Begging the Bees

early inside the house a

heated restrained debate about

the fog this morning rounds out

the twittering tug of words that

aren’t said so much as breathed

forcefully into each other

/

the cats on the sill and the

finch and squirrel and the honeyed scent from

the fainting white lily steam like

the hot, hot sink with fresh plates and juice

glasses from breakfast, the smell of fried

eggs and french toast and bacon

mix with your daughter’s diapers twist

near the ceiling like

/

dogs in the back hallway on the red carpet

distractedly who itch. one groans. the old women who

died here could not have foreseen these

two black dogs itching on the

cheap red carpet near the back door. one groaning. one watching.

/

as we spoke about the density of the

fog early inside the house and the flowers

in the rain outside waiting to be harvested

drank like their stems would be

cut at any moment begging the bees:

DO YOUR BIDDING ON ME, LORD, DON’T

YOU THINK I’M PRETTY? DON’T YOU DESIRE ME?