She is lipid, wax,
melts under heat, cools to harden.
Insoluble, hexagonal, intricately structured and
full of holes.
My hunger is honeycomb
busy, busy, busy.
These inner storehouses can never be filled
by a colony of honeybees,
even in a perfect, systematic function.
Flip me upside down
and shake out
the queen bee,
“for the only empty person he turns away is the one full of himself.”
Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread,
and your labor for that which does not satisfy?
Give a portion of yourself
to seven, even eight,
for you do not know when disaster may strike.
They are starving
and you are filled with love.
See how they come like a swarm of bees
to this land flowing with honey!
you would not know when the stomach is empty
but for the pang it signals,
you do not know which honeycomb has collapsed
but for the swarm of bees alighting on you.
“I have no comb!” you cry.
“I have no comb but my heart.”
Yet he makes you drip with honey so you will know
you do not fully understand the work
of he who makes everything.