She ripped the hive from the hollow
coming unhinged like the hive.
Brained it, broke it open on a tree
that had fallen across her lap.
Her hair dripping toward us, each lock
skinned by noonlight, ropy and blue.
Feeding in the darkness of her hair
she tastes the different-colored honey
ringing the brood—
redbud, serviceberry, cherry and plum.
Then the honeycomb tore, she tore it
and dumped the brood
into her mouth—
voiceless, wingless, their appetite,
calling her by scent.
She seemed to eat not for hunger
or pleasure but because she wanted
to be alone, uncomplicated