Bee Shaman

It pulls a flaccid mask of skin away,
empty sockets without eyes to stare.
It is revealed,
glistening in honey and wax.


Its call brings the bees,
swarming they enliven the mask. 
It pierces me with a gaze
that cleaves my thoughts,
stopping them.


Should I thank it?

The bees percolate out its mouth,
just a trickle at first,
then a fountain.
Billowing yellow smoke
they take to the sky,
defining intricate patterns 
and writhing constellations.

The crowd sees a show,
and thinks it's a performer.
They throw money.
Just another gypsy street artist,
a bee charmer.

I know better.


Curious words fill my mind:
teotish stammish,
tombayashi,
and others I can't write.

I'm invited back to its trailer.

As it dons another costume:
radiator face
and eyes with no whites,
it shows me its wares.
These fuzzy cones
aren't just decorations,
crafts and curios.

I don't buy them,
but they already own me.