Questions come & go like bees
in their hive. We’re afraid
to ask where, so we lick
the pollen from their thoraxes
instead, try to discern their direction
by taste alone when we should be
dancing. We study the world
as moths do, from a distance,
until a flame appears & draws us
closer, then closer, to self-
immolation. I expect to be burned
over & over again, pursuing truth—
a vanity afforded to me by virtue
of speaking it. Imperfect as it is,
we try & try to tell each other
secrets while no one watches,
compound eyes glued
to their screens. The knowledge
we inherit from the air comes to us
in stages: larval, pupal, then molting
forever until the juvenile wings have fallen
off, replaced by the ptero-
stigma of adulthood. Some of us
skip idly toward exoskeletons
of suits & ties. Some of us never evolve
beyond the nymph stage—
their mandibles suspended in permanent
O’s. (They crave so much & they
can’t even chew paper.) It hurts
to grow, learning the mechanism
of a new body. I know the ache
of that wonder, the sting
jutting through the abdomen.
When the raqiya finally collapses,
I’ll use the scraps to build a new
nest, where I can be queen (or king),
& we can propagate our own
species of mystery: hybrid swarms
born to be sentient & buzzing.
