Collecting Honey from Wild Bee Colonies, One of the Most Ancient Human Activities by Lisa J. Cihlar

The thing is the bees--
their fumble from blossom to blossom
in late May when the crab apple snows.

Staggering unbalanced in September,
fruit rotting, winey on the ground,
bruised and sticky auburn.

About the bee’s disregard
for anything that is not instinct.  

My beekeeper arrives to knock
the swarm off the blooming lilac
into the white box hive.  

They are accommodating and stay put.
If you had wings wouldn’t you fly away?

I murmur stay stay stay when the orgasm
slams and hold him in with all my thigh
muscles tense.  Just stay.  I became
an atheist and chose not to say ‘Oh God.’
I worry about the conscious choices
within passion.  So stay.

Look to the bees for instinct.  Watch
the queen/drone flight.  A swarm forms
that will not stay.  




Lisa J. Cihlar's poems have been published in numerous journals including:
The Pedestal Magazine, Frogpond, Qarrtsiluni, elimae, and Pirene's Fountain.
She lives in rural southern Wisconsin.