When Light Comes Over

The bees are dying

a tarmac death. The Queen

is a bump under black

molasses and we’re making 

out. We bloom 

from the belly 

of a body going cold. 

We’re never making it 

out of this house.

When light comes over,

I clear the living room 

and reveal the forest. 

Our love luxuriates 

on soft summer moss 

while passersby hang

themselves, clinging to rotting

tendons like baby teeth.

This love is a roach.

This love outlives

the end times.