by Nick Gisburne
They funnel sweet infection to their queen
Through conduits connected to the womb
Sporadic shocks awaken the machine
The primitive procedure can resume
Impatient, hissing herds beyond the gates
Ignore the now-insistent calls for calm
A sudden hush, and as each worker waits
They shiver, gripped with anguish and alarm
Within, they split the mother, stretch her hide
A clutch of glossy spheres is lifted free
While each is crushed, discarded, deep inside
The gleam of golden flesh is clear to see
Synthetic drones extract it through her chest
A child, a queen, the future of the nest
