It slips on easily. My body flows into the shape as though bee DNA lurked there all along. Snug in the legs, and a tickle where the sting is lodged.
Vision zooms and mosaics. My wings open of their own accord, roll and lift like paddling oars. I rise above gigantic objects I barely recognise as my own mess.
Buzz overtakes me. I am buzz incarnate, drawn to the siren call. I zig and zag, crash and slide, fooled again and again by the window’s lure.
Believing the lie at last, I dodge your trapping hands, your simple eyes still blind to my shifting form, and tumble a dusted sunbeam through the opening door. Out into honeyed air.
Patterning bodies fold me in, and the dance is joy and gluttony and sway. Tongue-smell, jaw-taste, wing-breath, flooding. Thighs pollen-thick. Sweetness and urging. Flight.
Saturday 26 June 2021
'I Find The Bee Skin Hanging Behind The Bathroom Door' by Ali McGrane
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