I know she’s in there, sleeping over this winter,
holed up under the copings on the roof.
A few bricks, some crumbling mortar
all that lies between us. I’m sure I hear her
shifting, testing sticky wings,
shaking pollen from her swollen knees,
lifting each foot gently off the buzzing mound.
A summer’s concentration weighs heavy on a girl.
She’s slowing now, cradles emptying faster
than she can fill them. The drones are dead
and her workers dwindle, sip at dregs of dew
that barely keep them on their feet, their shiver
exciting atoms to warm the cooling hive.
Everything depends on these eggs, these larvae
squirming from their dusty cells.
This is something we silently agree.
All night my legs itch and my vision’s split
by moonlight filtered through the slatted blinds.
I’m finding holes in my house now,
they keep me awake, empty pockets
behind closed doors where the air turns
eternally on itself. My abdomen lies flat
against the mattress while my spine’s
crept over by something I cannot, dare not, name.