I. Mason 

Upon my abdomen collects
glitter borrowed
from a lady
slipper’s tongue.

Inside fluted, papery cup,
I am quiet,
softly humming.
I know she likes

the slow, hypnotic way we touch,
tickle lightly, 
pull at stamen.
How I receive

depart astern, suspend before
I give again.
Dizzy colors
bounce to blossom.

Gentle, this exchange of powder,
sweet the tasting, 
soft her petals
upon my wing.

To nearest tree with flicker holes
I enter, solo
nuzzling mud
to seal the base. 

Busy then with careful spreading,
cherry nectar,
flower dust
secures the bed

for the coming of my daughter.
Ten days spinning.
Winter sleeping.
Until April

when she chews away the dreaming, shakes her body,
dark and shiny
from sticky love.
She flies into the orchard light,
little blue speck,
nothing to do 
with explosions.

While nature’s thought to script her part,
female’s purpose
to mate, to egg
to fly, to die,

she is no drudge, follows no queen.
She has circled
the ears of cats,
the horns of bulls.

She has flown over wax houses
where busy girls
are drying plates
with their dense hair.

How they waggle inside prisms, 
hexagon- boxed, 
perfectly stamped 
thumb prints of God.

Distant family kept inside
sugar lockets
around her neck,
on glossa tip.

Considering them openly
viewed from above,
close to her throat,
end of her tongue,

she is both a part of them and not.
She is keeping rhythm,
harmony bound
to save her kind.

II. Fossil

Asleep in amber’s glossy tomb,
I am observed.
The man in white 
turns me over.

Seduced by evolution’s tick,
he cites my age
as oldest one
at centum mille.

Yes, when conifers to petals
showed their colors
and nectar sweet, 
I came anxious,

joined the ballet, replacing wind.
The farmers noted
my sugar dance
and learned from me.

For years this rhythm, undisturbed,
completed, small,
essential part
of the harvest.

Until the food chain toppers thought
to speed the crop
with chemicals,
I was sacred.

Madhava blue goddesses turned
in the lotus,
turned into me.
A line of black

from Devi’s hands released a swarm 
to pierce the hearts
of demons sent
to rape her land.

I was born from tears in Egypt,
dropped from the Sun,
stitched onto robes,
cherished by kings.
Aristoeus kept my houses.
Bulls and heifers, 
gone in my name,
resurrected.

Demeter called for my travels 
from earth to sky
seeking her girl,
soul sent to hell.

Settled on the mouth of a child,
my dewy gift,
celestial,
my honey, speech.

Now comes the poet with her sigh.
She bites her pen
and knits her brow
to look at me.

Romantic, pining long ago
thinking herself
a clever witch,
she aims to save.

She wants to hide me in her mouth
within her braids,
in her pockets,
in her fists.

Sad fairy tale, how we are locked
inside a kiln
this desperate hag
cannot open.

Little hell flame, little poppy,
she craves the spell
to cool this heat
and set us free.

She’s planting clover, rosemary,
waking at dawn,
checking the buds,
calling my name… 

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References:
Lines within Michelle Seaman’s “Apoidea” allude to stories within the following mythologies: Hindu, Egyptian, Greek, and Minoan. Also appearing within the poem are references to these poems by Sylvia Plath: “Stings,” “Tulips,” and “Poppies in July.” The poet gratefully acknowledges this writing as a connection to and a source of inspiration for her work.

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About the Author:
Michelle Seaman is a poet and visual artist from Washington, D.C. She has a Bachelor’s in Secondary English Education and a Master’s in Interdisciplinary Art. Her work has been published in literary magazines such as Bathtub Gin, Phoebe, and Kalliope. Currently she is a member of the Federal Poets of Washington, D.C. To learn more about her work visit: www.michelleseaman.net or www.thedwindlers.com.