after Sylvia Plath
I did not order them, as if you could own
something that only takes notice of the sun.
Maybe flowers believe they have some rights
over their case; they use each other for sex,
so very meaningless, this sticky addiction.
Ed scoped our house for their redeployment.
He’d split his hives, divided them like identical
cells. Our front yard was too risky; these boxes
flogged, fetch five hundred dollars on the black
honey market. Theft, a drudgy human invention.
He decided on a corner of our back garden,
but not at tree level as I’d thought, but propped
up on bricks as if developing a slum. Turns out
they’re not picky, this miniaturized murmuration.
Moving in with us was their collective idea.
They might produce one comb of honey a year,
where herbees would produce five or six having
blonde wood & dark rings around their abdomens;
the painted nose of a fighter plane. Ours are black,
stingless, fruit-fly size as if nature forgot to arm
them when she gave out orders, reliant on hand
to hand combat if any invasion should break-out.
I’m worried that our cat, bear-size to them might
try it on, fascinated by their tiny spawning; for he
was at the meeting when Ed first outlined his plan.
I wonder if our flowers will do the trick; I planted
native grasses & shrubs for the honeyeaters foremost,
those galaxy travelers. I never considered those light
consumers, who never leave their own solar system
so powerful the pull of their brood’s black hole.
They might do well here. I have no suit, no veil.
I’m not a threat. I don’t want their honey. We keep
the cat inside, mostly. Their freedom is not up to me.
I’ll watch out for wasps, ill-directed punts, the drone
of high-school students smoking bongs next door.
The box could be pure poetry.