The brittle bee drops
his striped shorts too early
as the queen spindles
out on sickened legs, careful
not to catch her splendid wings
on the walls or ceiling of the
disheveled hovel.

A cold dew releases itself around
his furry forehead, but
he tries to smile anyway and her
grace smiles back, even
sadder. She moves to the center of
his square and flops down on her
stomach, her stinger points up at him.

All he has to do is follow it down.

Despite the mandatory “royal” prompting,
he hesitates and has to concentrate
to steady his nervous wings as he floats back
to the sticky floor. His feet are soft
enough to stay silent. Finally, he slowly
approaches her majesty and draws his
stinger close.

The queen twinges as she tries to
make the most of the excess honey
that is caked around her lips at all times,
and she stares at the wall and is reminded
that every wall is the same wall in this
octagonal society. “But,
it’s for the colony,” she sighs.

The brittle bee snaps his stripes back
in place and heel steps to the door.
The queen strikes him too hard on the head
with her Royal scepter as she struggles
through the door. He falls over against
the paper wall, his cranium cracked
forever, but smiles and mutters, “it’s
for the colony,” as the door closes
softly behind his maudlin matriarch.

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