Dorothy Porter

for Robert Colvin

Dorothy PorterThere is a dark place
on my friend Robert’s farm
that thrums
with the nectar smell
of danger.

A swarm of bees
has taken over
a dozing old shed
and no one
has the means
or guts
to move them.

I think of slaughtered
Mycenean kings
entombed in their brick
glittering as they lie
golder than honey
in the old blood

my bare hand
wants to plunge
through a hole –
now a buzzing lethal
highway –
in the shed wall.

I love the bee hut
on my friend Robert’s farm.

I love the invisible mystery
of its delicious industry.

But do I love the lesson
of my thralldom
to the sweet dark things
that can do me harm?

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