The Charming

Grandfather pulls the netting
Over my face, then his, and
turns up my cheek thirty degrees.
There are fifty shades of amber
to sip but hundreds of suicide
workers willing to sting you.

His eyes leave mine hungry
with anticipation, hands hot
for the sweet tack.
I follow the gloom of smoke
and think to myself
they can smell it, fear
and step to the side
of Grandfather’s beehive.

I dream of honey,
in slow sticky rivers that drift
and shape to my tongue like edible gloves.
The absolute sweetness,
the musk of the bees brushing petals
and stealing away to craft the nectar,
the true golden mean.

Their combs hiding my treasure in
measured pockets, hexagrams holding
the secret to happiness:
worth risking the poison
to garner the prize.

One breath from the can,
the spicy smoke of smoldering
peppermint leaves releases
the swarm for meager moments.
Grandfather gathers the comb with
deliberate grace and hands it to me.
The charming is over.

He winks a wrinkled eye and whispers:
This is the gift of patience, child. Savor the sweet
‘cause life aint nothin’ but bitter.