It’s the banquet of the beehive.
At the center of the table,
the still tornado of a wasp nest.
We’ve been gifted a handful of stingers.
We’ve been gifted a life of welts.
Peel the bee wings to make bandages.
You, I see, are a mannequin of wax.
You, I see, have tipped the honeycomb into the jar.
You point to the window’s amber glass.
These bees work in blood,
our blood is wax.
We breathe in honey.
We drink the honey,
cut ourselves to wax.
We feed and never fly away.