On a hot summer day
mowing the lawn
I am thinking of
I do not know what,
probably replaying
an old conversation
and thinking of wittier
or more loving things
I could have said.
Instead, I was probably
defensive and small,
so that now, pushing
the mower and trying
to find the cut line,
it is easy to believe
that I could do better
next time I converse,
and just as I think
of the perfect whatever
to say several days ago,
the sting. And sting. Sting.
And I am animal clawing
at air. I run. I swipe my arms
crazed and wild to clear a path
to the door. But the bees
follow me through the yard
and sting me twice more
on the elbow and wrist.
They bit me! I shout,
then correct myself to
the air. They stung me!
The air does not care
what the bees have done
or if I have said it
the way I should.
And I do not practice
new ways of speaking
nor worry one bit
about conversations I
did not have as I pull
out the stingers and
feel as how the body
responds to the venom
as the body does—without
thinking, and my
wrist, elbow, thigh
and inner arch begin
to swell.