In my summer breath

I hear the tick-tack

of train tracks and become

acutely aware of

my soft pink lungs

and the thrumming

of hungry young bees

living in my chest.

I feel the orange origami

folds of my paper-thin

eyelids as the nectar sun

holds them softly closed.

But when my skin and bones

turn to stones and soil,

I will feel the small gold bodies

flying from my lips.

They will lust over orchids

and pinks and peonies

that open like fists

releasing birds.

I will be a feast

for the forest bursting

in my limbs and hips

and skull. And the bees

will remain as plants go to seed

and the mountains to trees.

Bugonia (βουγονία): the generating of bees from the putrid carcasses of cattle