(i)
There's a price
to pay for
a bee's nectar,
the sharp spear of taste
penetrating
tongue and throat
with a thousand needles
of sweetness
weaving showers
of jumping saliva
as you reel
off, a punched-out guest,
at the mouth
of a bee hive,
threaded labyrinths
of gold-clothed
bees swarming off
to seek shelter,
their mouths
full of a sting still
sinking slowly
like a hypodermic needle
into your burning flesh
in the smoke
and ashes of a scream
drowned
and choked by the buzzes
of goldenrod insects
floating in glass jackets
and bright shirts
over a prey
sipping the piercing
price of nectar
on a tongue too shredded
to land a savoring nerve
on the juice
of a sweet buzzing sting
still rolling over
dark and red tinder
over the roaring coals
of a sipping hearth.
(ii)
How long does
the hoopoe-mouthed
arrow of a sting last,
when the bird
flaps its wings
at your sinking wound
in a brush
of breeze and wind
sinking down
your throat, as you gulp
down nectar,
the swift river swerving
into that inner bowl
filtering off all clouds
of pain,
as you lick off
more crab-gripping honey
from the fire
of a beehive
waving the glow
and storm
of a honey harvester's
rumbling coals,
the river of sweetness
drowning you,
cleaving off
your arm's wings,
as you can
no longer swim off
a tide of sweetness
burning you
into the ashes of your tongue,
a sky's reddening dusk
full of blood.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem