Batman In Honey Again
After a hive’s worth of hurt lovers, you said No more.
There’s no higher crime to fight than my desire. Holy utility belt;
it held a cold shower. When you rescued the brunette
who only wore tears of gratitude, it came in handy, wept you
empty. No lust in the buzzing months of spring. But
they uncoiled so slowly, like royal jelly, and your mind, hive
to light, went out. But not for long. Many stone combs
radiate from your cave. A waif came in, runaway, orphaned
as a sphere of sugary air in honey. Hot as pollen. Not
again. Ignore her pheromone when it sweetens your den.
Go deaf to the flutter of her mustard-colored skirt,
the buzz of its zipper. Hide your eyes from its glisten,
the exoskeleton of her yellow jacket, the bra’s black
vector on your wax Tyrannosaur. No pollen-golden socks
kick and lick in its claws. No, don’t buzz up. Oh, but
you must. Sticky with mystique, tattooed with bat shadows,
she sees you. Go, drone again. Honey drowns the scene.
Later, it will caramelize to memories. Too Hornet-Green
with afterglow to take her home or even ask her name,
let her flutter here. You, tremble-dance in your swarm
of criminals. In the sonar of this romance, they shimmer
amber. Now, the bee-eye moon clouds over. Omen. Get home.
Honey Nameless swarms your most personal of arsenals,
unveils the worst of your souvenirs. From the Riddler’s carnival,
that candy medusa head. It squints. Oh, no. As you zoom in,
she turns way too glittery and white. In the sugar stare
she petrifies. Her last word sparkles in the bitter air: lover.
Search your flower heart for a nectar cure. If, like her,
it’s too sweet to be real, then mourn. Then begin again. You can.
