HONEYBEE
You keep finding dead bees on the
sidewalk. Their stingers stuck
somewhere far from where you stand,
you’re surprised to discover them still
quite capable of inflicting a subtle
damage, a kind of reverse sting: the
spiny point has been lodged inside all
along, it only took a tiny death to
extract it, to pull the swivel backward,
to percolate midnight’s pain through
morning’s pores. The cruel thing isn’t
the remembering, but the way you
collect bowls of stingers to take home
for breakfast. They poke new holes in
your throat on their way down, sore
and pink and bleeding. You still count
this as success.