The bees that sleep inside me
fill my mind with buzz.
I am Nectar they say,
I am Wax and Cone,
I am of Bee but not of Bee.
In the morning I look at my bee stripes
under the covers, something strange
and flighty is taking place inside me,
my head hums like something electric.
Yet by breakfast you would never know
that anything had changed;
I fidget the toast around the plate,
somehow it seems wrong
to eat honey on bee mornings.
I bin the crusts and rinse the dish.
Feel my eyes striping up beneath their lids
my tongue turning to fur,
the swarm growing inside my ribs.