Laura Hogan

The Bridegroom says to the Bride, “your heart has become a honeycomb 
full of every kind of instruction.” —Gregory of Nyssa
Australian stingless bees aim
their egg nurseries upward 
in a spiral, 
the same configuration
as crystals grow
their glow     and luminous mother
of pearl multiplies in the mouth
of mollusk.   Sweet sugarbag 
bee helix      of beeswax— 
trace   of divine finger 
in the genes  in the wax, 
refraction of gem    glimmer 
of pearl        pulsing architectural 
of love                  of algorithm
secreted in buzzing cells
which build and bend twenty
terraces high. You who number 
the stars, yellow the corners
and planes, bundle the efficient
hexagon—:   you know
the precise sum of tiny wings 
you’ve folded inside
this humming honeycomb,
            reaching up to you.