Honey

We four were fat with talk

under their fresh-painted pergola.

You giggled sounds like blue spruce

and hollyhocks, he told us how

he chicken-wired dirt chaos

into that terraced garden,

she announced road-stand watermelon

while the smart scout did its work.

Yellow jackets write such precise

expectations on the air.

You dummied up when one,

sensing sweet melon flesh,

alighted to sample nectar

on your lips. I watched it

wanting more, wanting in

to probe your tongue,

and you watched me as if I were

someone or somewhere else.

The day before, for no reason,

"Death that hath suck't the honey

of her breath" looped in my ear,

and now came again

while we waited for the sting, or cry,

that didn't come.

Romeo's words played back

like children's nonsense rhymes

when this morning's storm drained

yellow jackets to my ligustrum tree,

its spermy scent plied with sweet broom,

and lemon blossoms like those in their garden

when the wooer petted your mouth

and you smiled as if you knew

it couldn't hurt, your eye on me,

making sure we knew

you make your charms available

but don't give them away.