They danced in figure eights,
All abuzz with news of pollen.
Back and forth from the factory hive,
No clock in at nine nor
Out at five.
The queen directs from her chamber attended
By assistants agog with
Honey-production spreadsheets,
Every hex-shaped cell a honeycomb
Cubicle while soldier managers restrict
web-access
(no spiders allowed in the hive,
with their streaming videos and
toxic bite).
Other bees like salesmen travel
To further fields and drum up
Business with the furious vibrations of
Beating wing-pairs.
Always in the business,
Always dancing the same tune,
Every pollen possibility carries the
Same dance.
Minding your beeswax requires
Attention to detail and
Fancy footwork in those
Figure eights.
Drones drone,
Soldiers soldier,
The queen lacks a verb.
“Fly to the meadow,” says the Queen,
“And return to the hive
And powder me with the yellow dust
And cover me in honey
And dance for me in the hex-chambers
And bind me in wax
And hold me fast.”
Then comes the time,
The Hive declines,
The apiarists lament the lack of a
New queen with no verb,
Just a noun and,
Like the drones,
Is gone.
YOU ARE READING
"Dance for me, in the hex-chambers"
PoetryA assemblage of poetic forms; entry for the 2012 Attys
