Candour

she placed them so high above her tree line
that when she tended to their feet down in the forest loam
her antennae snagged the low slung branches
the half-light made her believe
and she ill-read tattooed there
speak

laureate words hummed into an inchoate breeze
don’t ever think of the human voice
or ear
or the buzz beyond there
for when she moved higher
turned, pressed the back of her head to their knees
instead of the view over the tree crowns she
looked up to below their chin
to that soft hollow that dips with every withheld yawn,

and
spoke

well, her truths
dribbled like a bee over the bow of her bottom lip
overwintered, free and,
silly, she
expected the honey that comes
from the hard hive of candour

yet the bee had pilfered her tongue
wore it away, warmed
left her its language as downpayment
(of course, few speak bee
these days)

she without her gold sting spun
sudden and tongueless
to the forest floor
the only sounds:
the silver strum of wings
the slam of a ribcage door

thought she,
truth’s for the birds, then
whosoever said otherwise
lied

she’d stabbed too far
learned sideways (perhaps at last
and probably not)
that if you pull the sting
you take the guts
and one needs their guts
for that forecast given
right there at the very beginning

so it’s best to leave them in