The recipe for making bees

She was almost 3
according to the watch face
she had tethered to her throat
by the c string
of a harpsichord
intertwined
with the bitch green fronds
of a cypress

She was a malingerer
she malingered
outside
Northwick Park Station
which is sometimes
on the Metropolitan Line
assailing commuters
with her
rapacious youth

She wore an Alcatraz orange dress
sullied grey by predators
and when August
was at her most vengeful
she would fist her pucker-pink hands
close her eyes
and hum that summer song
which is beyond our grasp
as soon as the first ice-cracks
appear

From her gelatine fingers
the bees
would tremble
tumble
escape.
You could reach out
and stroke their
tiny beards
and
they would kiss lick pollen
behind your fingernails.
It was a transaction

This was not creation
but
there was death