POETRY
Honeyguide
Rose DeMaris
Men trill their tongues and we come undulant through sky
to lead them to the hiding place only we can see, secret
chamber in the baobab’s trunk, our hearts like little windblown leaves
at the sound of their enticing calls. Brrr-hum! Brrr-hum! Instantly
we fantasize hexagonal prismatic cells, just the way our fathers
did, and their fathers too; this ritual’s been ours for about a million
years. We perch, pink beaked, to watch them raise the smoking pole
and climb, watch them cut the wild hive, as beloved watches lover
carve initials into bark with the same synthesis of sweet and rough
that’s underlying all of life—beginning on the day we hatch
and kill the lesser nestlings, then thrive and grow to help
the human being hunt his honey. The bees are dazed, air ghostly
with wildflower breath, clouds so still and formal, as if witnessing
what’s holy, the hour of intersection for all these facets of creation:
us and them; insects, nectar, fire, song and tree; the viscous gold
that drips out of the place where we converge, one of many
fated wounds in this unending mystery. The men, happy, fill their jars
but leave us with the comb, an architecture we digest. This is how
we help ourselves. We fall upon our share, gorge before they even turn
their backs. We guide for trade, not for free: we do it for the wax.