Disco Bees

The day before yesterday 
my daughter showed me where 
a dozen bumblebees or more were 
dancing in the eaves outside her window
taking turns to slip into the roof, 
emerging later worse for wear.
Checking online, where almost everything’s 
explained to some degree, and may be partly true,
we learned that these were tree-bumblebees,
that male bees don’t, or only rarely sting,
and that what we’re seeing here is a nightclub, 
males throwing their best shapes
to impress the queen, desperate to mate.
It also said to leave them well alone,
they don’t live long, or will move on.
Yesterday we found the fallen, 
small furred bodies scattered on the lawn,
the dead and dying pedalling air, 
survivors crawling nowhere in slow circles.
We made a honey syrup, poured it into seashells 
and gently tried to coax them in.
Within an hour the strongest bees had flown
staggered back into the discotheque or home
perhaps to lie in darkened rooms, humming
to themselves, ‘never again, never again’
at least until the next time. 
And sure enough this morning there are more, 
drawn by the heady lure of pheromones and sex,
drunk on love or lust. Or maybe these 
are super funky bees just getting down, 
getting on up like sex machines, 
high on bee-amphetamines, buzzing 
to the sound of an equivalent James Brown.