Wasp Nest

When I repacked my suitcase
I took every ounce of lonely
from that swamp.
It took up so much room in the car that
my left iris evaporated.
Outside the gas station
it started to rain.
 
Somewhere, between there and here
between the variant blue Virginia shadows
I realized that my ribs had been replaced
by a beehive. My throat was
a clot of wasps, buzzing.
My lungs, sticky, gold. The queen
laid herself in the third chamber of my heart.
They crawl, inked like biohazard
through the amber ridges of my spine.
I was not qualified to keep
all those empty honeycombs
in my mouth.
 
I call him up and say
Honey, I might be allergic.
He asks, then why are you a beekeeper?