One Bee Escapes the Ether and Grubs What's Left of Air

Across the darkling yard, the black bell sounds.

The high note's tone's caught wide inside the open mouth,
then darkens as it's swung around—
Like a baby laughing on a swing,
Silly, giddy, up!—then sickened, dizzy, down.

I have a bee inside my fist, hot and furious.
Its stinger's here, still thrumming in my fingers.

I'd waved a stick around my head then tried to crush it with a rock.
So it sent its stinger in, sent its hook into my hand—

Now it grubs a circle in my palm.

I push it so it walks. I lift the needle off the skip.
I push it forward so its path is straight and living.

I think you are a Queen and cannot be transformed.

Ten times I've pushed you and still you crawl to die.
The pity is in the grunt's desire and no one promised otherwise.

Negative equation under the persistent sun:
Creation is not good or bad but chaos.

One bee escapes the ether to grub what's left of air—

Copyright © 2010 Regan Good All rights reserved
from The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission