Bees

On a dare, we plunge our hands
into the cool aluminum mailbox,
trapped bees clustering our skin,

brushing the bones of our wrists.
To keep so close to the sting, to hold still
as bees’ antennae probe our fingers,

chills each nerve from neck to hip.
Lost in the dark, they’ve forgotten
why they came—to mine the purple

clematis, split petals, and dust
their legs with gold. We will remember
their touch years later as our husbands

trace our clavicles. Like the bees,
we will wake under strange night skies,
wake in skins we can’t imagine.

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Thanks to Green Mountains Review, where this poem first appeared.