The bees have swarmed again. He takes me to them without cover-alls, gloves or hood. My t-shirt and jeans won't protect me from anything. I know because they never do.

There are so many bees in the air, humming so loud, so low, I can hardly hear, but most of them are sagging in a general gelatinous glob on the side of a small bush. My stepfather pushes me close from behind. I am afraid.

"Don't be afraid," he says. But I can't listen to him. He's put me in danger before and there is no trust.

He takes my arm in his hard hand and pushes it hard out in front of me.

"Touch them," he says.

"They'll sting me," I sob and recoil, anxious sweat from my forehead running down around my eyes, making it look like I cry. There must be something in my eye.

"They don't sting when they swarm," he whispers, lips close to my ear, strong, sour, earthy breath hot on my neck. But how can I believe him? I've been stung before.

I twist my wrist, but his hand holds the skin. I am bruising myself against him. I want to kick and scream, but I dare not. If I frighten the bees they might attack. I've heard stories of the time he had to kill a whole hive because they attacked the dog next door. The African Killer Bee infiltration is moving North, up from Mexico. Some of them are in Arizona already. I saw it on the news. I am afraid.

"Just touch them," he whispers and pushes my hand into the living, moving mass. I am crying for sure now, imaging my hand covered in stingers and welts, but he makes my hand stay, and nothing happens, just my skin stinging from where it got twisted in the struggle. And after a moment I don't even feel that. All I feel is all of them, as if I've reached into the body of a single being and can touch every single individual cell, feel them moving and churning against my hand. I feel their bodies, their wings, I imagine that I can feel them breathe as one. They climb over, around, between my fingers, and some start to move up my arm.

He lets go of my arm, but his hand hovers near.

"Try to find the Queen."

"How?" They all feel exactly the same to me.

"Push in further. She'll be in the middle. She's much bigger than the others."

I can feel him getting excited behind me. He thinks he's giving me something, teaching me, doing something for me that I'll have to appreciate and respect him for. I don't want to give him that, but I don't want to stop either, so I try to pretend he isn't there. It's difficult to do. He's so large he blocks out the sun.

Pushing in further, I feel around. A glop of bees falls off the bottom of the swarm. I've shaken the branch too much and dislodged them. They scramble on the ground, then spring up from my feet and fly around. I must take it slowly. This is a delicate structure.

The bees move further up my arm, up past the elbow. They're beginning to lightly cover my shirt and pants as well. I can hear them buzzing in my short hair. I have no sense of anything but their mass, their movement against my skin, their noises in my ears. Finally I find her, the fat bodied one.

"I can feel her!" I say, real joy in my voice.

"Close your hand around her and pull her out of the swarm."

I do, slowly, gently, taking care not to crush her. I pull her out and hold her in a loose fist, away from the bush, at a right angle to my body. My balled hand is covered in a thin layer of bees. The bulk of the swarm left behind on the bush is becoming more active now.

"Why don't they sting?" I want to know, but I don't want him to tell me. He likes telling me things too much. I wish I knew without asking. Asking means trusting and there is no trust.

"They only sting when they have a hive to protect."

"But I have their queen."

"They won't sting until she's found a new place for a hive, like a hollow tree branch or one of the hives we make for them."

I wish I could be the hive. I wish I could be a tall, old tree with a hollow branch inside of me. I wish they would build their comb around me and protect me as their home. I wish honey would run through my veins and drip from my limbs.

More and more of the bees transfer from the bush to my arm. My arm grows heavy, but I hold it still. I wish I could hold it stiller for longer. I feel my arms growing into wood, my feet sprouting roots, growing down into the soil, my hair and lashes turning into leaves. I want to be strong enough to stay here, to hold, to be blown by the wind and barely move. I want to go bald every winter and rejuvenate each spring. I want to keep these bees inside of me.

"Shake them off," he says, uprooting me.

"What?"

"Shake them off and put the queen in here." He produces a tiny bug cage from his pocket. "We'll put her in the new hive I made for her."

I hesitate. I don't want to give her up.

"It doesn't hurt them to fall?"

"They're tough."

Just the same, I lean down low to the ground as I shake them off to land confused on the dirt and rocks. I give the queen over to my stepfather. They scramble about as if they were ants for awhile until they remember they have wings and once again take flight.

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