HIVE
—For Stephen


Tucked in a cleft of arm you hunt
for milk. Roseate. Areola.

I circumnavigate the signs
pictured on your pajamas. Arrows

point east and west; a violet hive;
bear: tail end up in honey-pot.

Cars drone outside. I comb back tufts
of hair. We burrow in these chintz

pillows, sink deeply down in sofa.
For now, we are a pair spied on

by animals. (A rabbit pokes
its ear, antennae-like, from under

cushions.) I’ve read “during the summer
honey flow, worker bees will travel

55,000 miles to gather
nectar to make one pound of honey.”

A foot kicks off its sock. You sip,
roaming many miles, honey-seeker.

Days tumble. I would like to buzz
into the orchid of your ear.


—Elise Paschen