Of Two, She with Bees the Moon in Tulle

Of Twos: She with Bees and the Moon in Tulle 

There is my window.

I awoke just now so gently, I thought I was floating off.

                          from “Woman in Love”

                         Rilke

Yet even though clouds veil your face

and try to blot most of you

and pull the light into them it seems—

and because they gather like pleats

as they pull then lift and drift away

your face is mostly light, this half

        

that’s revealed.  And listening is

the cloud and the gauze as it slips

over your cheek, it is 

a succulent surge of awe, like the first

time a woman actually wanted

something other than herself

inside of her, when she was opening

the way buds reveal themselves

to a bee, and later her companion,

the way they riddle in, buzz to bump what’s wet,

and pull out to do the same

monogamous crawl into the next

and the next until, drunk-full,

she barely makes it back

without collapse, without unfastening

it all too feveredly, each hexagon 
a mirror of you:

first quarter           new          waxing           waning

last             through clouds, some soon, or through

time that slides down the throats of intruders,

and guests alike, in a smoke confused with clouds

from a hookah that subdues

her with perfume across her only moon

face, her vibrating indefatigable  

longing