“If you were a star,” you said, “you’d be called Forgive me.
To which I smiled (you couldn’t see me) and said, 
“Or Forgive me not.” 

You said “Beware the ides of March on days we’re distant 
from bees and flowers.” 

“Not if the bees in the mouth don’t sting,” I said, 
“and the air we move is a monk’s in a meditative year.” 

“Are we the plants or the particles, 
the planets or the elements?” you asked, 
“and our touchless touching, vector-dependent sex, 

and the honey mouth, are they 
the silences that waggle the tune 
on our foraging routes?” 

“When I say honey,” I clarified, 
“I’m asking you whose pollen you contain. 
We’re no snowflake symmetry 

yet to each pollen grain its aperture: 
porous, colpate, yet blanketing the earth 
as crystals might, and light isn’t refused.” 

“And when I say honey,” you said 
“I grip my sweetness on your life, 
on stigma and anthophile, 

and the soporific folded on its synchronous river 
that doesn’t intend to dissect my paradise.” 

“O captive my captive, we lost and what did love gain,” 
I asked, “I haven’t fallen from where I haven’t been, 
or exited what I didn’t enter.” 

“Seen or unseen,” you said, “I’ll live in your mouth. 
We have an extra room. The children like it there, 
mead in it their stories and playdough.” 

“As if a child is the cosmic dust that made me, 
and I’m the suffix, its -ide.” 

“And within that child a child.” 
“And within that another.”
Unacknowledged Pollinators by Fady Joudah

Happy Sunday.

Rimsky Korsakov ~ Flight of the Bumble Bee