bees // (a poem)
The bees are out.
I chased three of those fuckers around my
living room for a good forty-five minutes,
Swatting. I missed every time, although it must have
been on purpose. I could have killed them. But
with everything going on, it wouldn’t have been ethical.
To think how easy it would have been — to
have inched so close, to have watched one wriggle, or
fail to wriggle — to have been at odds with him, an intimacy
unparalleled. And then to kill. To feel what
the virus feels. To take charge.
But, of course, I left the back door open and
eventually they found their way — delivered back
into light. I take my afternoon walk in
the graveyard, where they’ve dug new plots. The groundskeepers
have stopped weeding. The dogs are out.
The birds have built a nest in the gutter.
In the early afternoon, I hear them singing.
But not to me.