On Sunday picnic swarms arrive to view from the outside,
the inside; bringing Greek honeycomb, clever hexagrams,
stupid square sandwiches; olives transported from stony slopes.
Tommy arrives, so angry he scares my dead bones alive.
He needs milk and honey; mink and monkey he calls it; but dad
is insistent, shows Tommy what he wants him to see.
The honey pot flows, and on the cloth lies the lid.
How do I put a lid on it? Tongue stretched, I lick.
They like a lick. No bites. They like a quiet boy.
Imagine I try to claw my way out of this? Sticky paws
are a giveaway. It’s a slippery way inside and a sticky yellow
way out. My bib of white hackles rises, and every Sunday
I decide to just cling on; the end is always in sight.
The swarms leave now, small boys with pick axes held
knee-high; the honey- space visible between the girls’ teeth.