Close Enough to Honey
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.