Kissed By A Honey Bee

I was kissed by a honey bee.
My lips
must have been sweetened,
my breath
must have carried some
inadvertent fragrance
of passion fruit, some slow and lingering scent.

I was floating,
alone in the sun. The air
was thick and motionless,
in the fluid sun, and
my eyes were half-shut in the bright,
variegated sun, half-shut in the
bloody, radiant, painful sun.
There were tears inside my eyes.
I think I was smiling, or perhaps
I was about to smile.
There was a silence.
There was a stillness in my heart.

The honey bee flew slowly and true
to my red lips, barely closed,
and then alighted--briefly, cautiously, knowingly.
Wings still fanning, her tongue
touch- touch- touched
my lips
and then she drifted away
on a perfect, fading arc
and there was silence, again,
and there was dense and painful sunlight.

I remember dreaming of a kiss,
a simple kiss--lingering, soft
and gentle--faraway, slow,
long ago, measured in many fading, shallow breaths and
each shared breath was sweet, each
shared breath was numbing and sad.
The breathing seemed to stop.
I kissed you with my eyes.
I woke up dreaming
of that kiss.
I think the sun was falling on my face.

The touch
of the honey bee was
softer, still. The wings
of the honey bee made a gentler breath,
which I dared to breathe,
and sweeter, still,
than your shallow breathing.

Perhaps I shall dream
of honey bees, now,
and wake with tears inside my eyes,
the bright sun
brushing my face, the
warm sun kissing
my lips.

JDP 96/07

Copyright John D Porter © 1996

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