The Waggle Troupe

The bees are my secrets:
they sting during the day,

dying to their rage
as I scrape out my wounds

with credit cards.
I watch them come back to life,

stingers emerging from my flesh
and fusing with their abdomens.

At night, they fly into my ears
buzzing into my brain's hive,

whispering
into my dreams.

They foxtrot dread
and tango joy,

samba sentimentality
until sunrise.

Sometimes I spend
nights with loud company

to keep away the din;
usually I am the sound

singing symphonies to my speakers,
humming hymns to my feline friend.

The workers don't share the spotlight
but each queen

never dances alone
and never past the hour of her birth.

For a moment, she emerges
and moshes to the beat

of my night song.
For the rest of her life,

we are both held hostage
by the drones.

I tried to force
a swarm once,

and we almost made
it out but the honey

got stuck to my fingers,
the ear infection lasted for weeks,

and I cannot know where that old
queen went but in my mind

she's still in the pit.