My father spreads Miracle Whip onto my palms,
leads me to a hive on the back porch.

He says, hold

them in front of you and close your eyes. When my lids

lift open I see bees,

                                          golden storm humming in my hand

– their small tongues

            washing onto my skin in a whisper

of sweet.           It tickles.

I laugh.

The beginning is always good.

When I realize what they are, remember their stingers,

I start to cry, beg my father to make it stop,
please make them leave.

He says to close my eyes again, and when

I open them, the insects are gone.

     I told my mother

this story, years later.

She said it wasn’t true.

I must have dreamed it as a child, but when I reach

for the quick fingers of my thieving memory,

                          I remember the feeling of wanting

until I no longer wanted, of my father

 

at home and standing over me

like some god I did not have a name for.