January 17, 2024Bee Sting
The bee on the handle
stung me, and the pain multiplied.
I hurled the pail and left the bee
to life or death, I don’t know which.
Suddenly I felt irrelevant. To the bee,
spent and clinging to the handle,
I was merely a mass, a force to ignite
the stinging process,
as other and unknowable
as friends or enemies
or the bouquet carried by my ex’s
second wife down the aisle.
from #82 – Poetry Prize