Aerodynamics of Bees

By | 30 June 2008

At first it looks like a dance, the two of us
bombus, a swarm delirious with body heat.
In the bedroom we are hidden from the city –
an emerald set into the harbour,
a flawed, crystalline knuckle duster.

It's spring. The air is saturated with flowers
as jasmine punches stars to carpet the porch.
Love, this is desire. The wind rips at the pines
and you slip a hand beneath my skirt, casually
as if opening a letter that time's read down
to a thin, fragile grain, pressed and kept
in the inside pocket of your blue, corduroy jacket.
You know all about aerodynamics –
you say both people and bees fall
in love but neither should be able to fly.
Our story ends differently –
his fine abdomen pops and vibrates,
trying to escape between the curtain and glass
he is a clock stuck
on cuckoo,
a syllable that, when repeated, is swallowed.
He is yellow and black, we are the colour
of freshly soaked oatmeal, the outline of our bodies like atoms,
are a fuzzy idea – the movement of our bodies atomic,
all bumbling sweetness. When you open the window
we are transformed – he into a black hole
in the sky and you and I – well it all happened so quickly
this life,
a second sloughed away into dust that ignites like sulphur
in the late afternoon light as you sprawl
on the mattress and tell me of a childhood
carnival – the Ferris wheel, a smoking motor,
suspended in a yawning cage where, from the top
the city skidded into the night.
You said you'd never know yourself
from that distance.

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