Helping with the Bees

It's a hot day when I visit,

I swat bluebottles away

as I walk down the drive.

Lightening bugs, ladybirds.

You open the door slowly;

Skin loose, skull huge, voice slurred.

I hug your tiny, jutting bones

and feel you shiver in the heat.

The house is dark and solemn and desperate.

You shuffle away towards the kitchen

and your parents corner me anxiously in the hallway

'Do you know anything that can help?'

'Anything that can help at all?'

I don't.

We distract ourselves.

Your dad takes me to collect honey from the bees.

I watch them go drowsy with the smoke,

They crawl over my gloves,

Across the gauze in front of my face,

Then onto my hat,

Looking for a way in.

He pulls out the trays of honeycomb,

'Here's the queen' he points,

She sits unmoving, fat and powerful,

Her eggs jelly-like,

squashed into endless hexagons,

They will hatch, and then more will crawl and more will swarm.

We go in for lunch.

We eat the same portions as you:

a handful of salad and a slice of bread.

You chew each mouthful a hundred times,

and swallow with a dry mouth.

I am so hungry.

The room is hot and drowsy,

as if we have all flown somewhere else in our minds.

When I leave your dad gives me a jar of honey,

'To say thank you' he smiles weakly

and looks away,

'For helping with the bees.’