We had to get along when we were young
the bee and me, us against the keepers.
I wore protective coloration; she hummed
regardless of who could hear; even sleepers
dreamt of honey. Pajama bumble beads
and amber leotards she stored in combs.
At dusk we climbed or flew from roof to trees
and drank the yellow lights from real homes.
Her sign was air, of course, a bee, but I’m
water on the cusp of earthenware,
no element that can take flight, no
migratory impulse, ooze not meant for air.
I always saw the bee golden in the light
she recollected. My camouflage felt right.
EK is the author of 8 books of poetry, and a memoir about her dad (The Shape of Dad). Her latest book is Art Speaks with painter Mary Hatch. She likes prose poems but also reveres a well-tuned and witty verse.