again, again, smearing themselves with pollen,
false mating which ends in exhaustion; the gardener
shows her the labellum, swollen like a bitten lip,
a bee’s abdomen, coquettish brown-bee-down,
exuding pheromones of bee lust; he cups
a drunken bee in his hand, puts it to her ear—
loovvvvvvvvvve—
uncups the bee, palm unstung;
love, love, the word throbs her wrist, a razor cut,
but this is retrospect
his shirt smells of rosemary, his fingers of lemon thyme,
his eyes dark as winter solstice
and she, lacking an astrology
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem