Though for years I have eaten dust
And dried plates with my dense hair.
And seen my strangeness evaporate,
Blue dew from dangerous skin.
Will they hate me,
These women who only scurry,
Whose news is the open cherry, the open clover?
It is almost over.
I am in control.
Here is my honey-machine,
It will work without thinking,
Opening, in spring, like an industrious virgin
To scour the creaming crests
As the moon, for its ivory powders, scours the sea.
A third person is watching.
He has nothing to do with the bee-seller or with me.
Plath  enjambs  the two stanzas to convey the smoothness of the operation she is in command of. 
 The ‘creaming crests’ is obscure, but could refer to the bees hovering above the flowers to ‘cream’ off the nectar. Note the construction of the line. The vowels are long to suggest the slow hovering movement of the bees. There are  alliterative  ‘cr’ sounds in ‘scour’, ‘creaming’ and ‘crests’ to give the line unity. The  sibilant  ’s’s may suggest the buzzing sound of the bees.
Stings