Close Enough to Honey

Katharine Kistler

We’re making mud with our thighs, sweat 

and dirt. A bee lands on your hand. You make

a hemisphere, a trap, and just when I think

you’re going to bring it to my face, you 

flatten your fingers and push its little stinger

into your skin. Wipe its leftover membrane

over my forehead. Its stickiness exists on me

somewhere between pleasantry and immunity.