Inside Out

 

Hundreds of bees nuzzle earnestly

in the shaggy Russian sage,

ignoring my final interrogation.

It doesn’t matter that I never actually asked it—

that terminal question—

they act as if I always knew.

 

They won’t look at me:

shoulders hunched, deep in aromatic denial—

assuming that I’ll sanction their disgrace.

 

They seem certain that I recognize their failure;

silently imploring me to imagine

there’s never been any such thing as honey—

as if they expect me to be certain

that no apology could possibly be offered

to excuse the existence of bees.

 

They’ve given up—

no longer trusting that anyone might overlook

the extent of their betrayal.

 

They’ve told me

their most shameful secret;

presented their final excuse—

“It’s not our fault— we didn’t know.”