As a child, I chewed on honeycomb,
when I had a sore throat.
That was a time when my mother hovered around me,
and fed me bread soaked in lullaby and milk,
and, for once, was not in a hurry.
I drifted in and out of sleep,
chewing that overly sweet condensation of bees.
In the hollow log, in the dark hall,
the queen had asked the drones to risk their lives.
The excitement of this ancient tale:
of a female demanding everything of a male, a
she-bee proud and relentless,
with nothing to stop her until it got dark.