A Couple with Their Heads Made of Bees
       

Let's not call it honey anymore
because honey is something necessary.
Let's call it a gift
because we can become young
to each other again and again,
slipping our feelers
into the mysteries
of pink folds, loyal
to the deep yellow light
that leads us back home
to sugar-rich gold
where we drag the long-dead
and creepy from our heads.
In the back of my throat,
we nest, sweet with nectar, tasting
each other's modest crimes—
how small we become
in our song.
I am prepared to die
for you, from ruptured abdomen.
Do not call it happiness;
I don't call it anything
but I sense its sweet flow, ghostly
as wind, depositing itself into my chest
bending through fields,
making its way into the comb.

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Copyright © 2022 Hollie Dugas All rights reserved
from Pembroke Magazine
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