Tommye Blount
"I’ve sinned with my mouth and loved the sound it made." —Thomas Lynch, “Attende Domine”
I listened, kept still
but the moaning
swarm came
to my ordered
field, showers
of arrows pierced
what they wanted
of the Fall’s Golden
Delicious. A taste.
I only wanted a bite
of the golden bodies
at which the tiny foragers nursed.
I reached toward
the branches, eager for the weight
of all that moaning.
I didn’t yield
to the boughs’ swats
at my dirty hands.
I couldn’t keep still,
I kept reaching,
the nectar drooled below
my wrist, pooled
in the crook of my elbow. The foragers worked
my skin, barb
by sweet barb. I bit
my lips.
I wanted
to pull back, but (Yes.)
I kept going, I took
the meat, core (Yes,
all that moaning.)
in my mouth’s
mad rake, hummed,
hummed. When I was done I was
not done Yes I reached back
inside
the branches bent with the sweet sweet
ache Overcome by the swarm
I ate the whole sweet thing
my sweet (Yes) sweet body
buzzed At last I was (Yes)
a hive