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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.

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