A Darkness of Nectar

My macro lens seems right for the job.
I am trying to determine what a sunflower is.

“Sun” flower, a source of light?

I go to move an inflorescence, one of the heads,
and am made shy,

          humble,

by the weight of it.

No matter where I focus, not enough.
The cheery face of one. The masticated ray florets of another.

Then I round one stem, my looking sticking to and tearing from
the sexual throes between raindrops and hair follicles,

          to find a bee embedded.

I like this best of all,

my face this close to the happening, the bee hulking along like a bear,
raising and dragging its honey-drunk shoulder-cage and limbs,

          savoring.

It sinks its straw-like proboscis in, feeds, withdraws,
carries on, delving, probing, nectar-rich and glistening,

          undisturbed by my breathing harder on it.

Yes, I like this best of all,
no matter what a thousand windows suggests about a voyeur,

          the body probes the body, unable to tear its urge away.

 

 

 

 

Erin Wilson’s poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in various publications and anthologies, including The Shore, Crab Creek Review, The South Carolina Review, Salamander Magazine, and The Inflectionist Review. Her first collection is At Home with Disquiet. She lives and writes in a small town in northern Ontario, Canada.