Bees love catnip; they go crazy for it; afterward, we drowsed, full of honeyed sweetness like the bees that browse the catnip, it could be like catnip to us, and I remember the first time my Siamese kitten had catnip, how she crawled into the bathtub and yowled in such a way that we were never sure if she liked it or not, but later she tried it again and was blissfully sprawled on her back, belly exposed – it can be like that sometimes, you’re never sure if the first time is godawfiil or good as Motown, all that nasty, dirty shit, but they say it with panache, so we buzz along, undisturbed.
Coldness produces boldness as we pause, immobile, frozen by frost, beating our wings harder to motion back dead/undead but never resurrected warmth returned and wing torn struggling so hard. I wonder if bees sting each other the way we did if it hurts so much for them as it does for us. Do bees part, pollen left behind, join another swarm, not so humble, fuzzy heads turned away, as we do when we do come to the same flower, or to the same flower bender
Published in The Blue Mountain Review, December 2022