When my friend enters a room,
everyone turns to look;
she smells like roses and honey
and smiles even if she’s alone.

Once, we were helping her father
clean out an old barn
a bee flew under her clothes
I’m allergic, she screamed,

pulling off her shirt
running naked past me,
laughing at herself
and my startled look—

her father frowned,
she’s a free spirit, he said,
but I knew the bee’s hunger
even within the hive

the pull and call,
the bloom of flesh:
roses, nectar, and honey,
the heavy stirring of blood.

Michael Minassian is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online poetry journal. His chapbooks include poetry: The Arboriculturist and photography: Around the Bend. His poetry collections Time is Not a River, Morning Calm, and A Matter of Timing are all available on Amazon. For more information: https://michaelminassian.com