 |
river rat: bee wars/bounty hunters
five fingers each hand
a length, your arm’s distance, per finger,
stolen from mother’s sewing room
from the cabinet where
she stashed sweet wine.
silks, not the cotton,
not the nylon, silks.
weight to strength ratios
must be correct even though
understanding such is years off.
catch white heads,
not black heads,
are they males or females?
carpenter bees drill holes, fly close,
dive bomb the cats.
the swing by the back door
watches an apple tree stump
born while lincoln breathed.
rough-cut swiss cheese lumber frames
overhangs covered in five vee tin.
“bees, dammit all!”
dad wanted them dead
“before the overhang turns to dust
and falls on our head”
a game turned into a livelihood.
catch five bees, ten, twenty,
but make silk harnesses, mini bridles,
beforehand, tied long and loose
with slipknots.
your brother will show you.
remember, white heads, white heads, white heads.
black heads have stingers,
barbed, wiry needles, painful
possibly deadly.
allergic?
game bees want badminton rackets.
tennis rackets kill.
alive, stunned and docile,
alive and well, furry,
ready to fly again.
fill a bowl, all white heads.
sprits water, mist them,
tiny hairs glisten.
drying droplets revive them
once harnessed.
tying the last one is always tough;
five or six or seven or eight awaken
and crawl, try to fly.
don’t worry the tangles;
the bees will sort it out in the air.
run through the house, ten bees flying,
tethered to ten fingers with pastel
silk thread, angels and lariats.
eyes closed it sounds like
a vibrator battle.
fight, world war two aces anchored
to knuckles, variable thread blades
knife aerial sabre loops
pulling, upward, diving, guiding
hands like flapping tug boats.
your bees and my bees and her bees
extend reach, buzz in clots
bridled against restraints,
until one by one, they pass out.
I wonder about cardiac arrest.
they never revive,
even if placed on a flower.
we work them like
race horses, like slaves,
for laughs.
another ten, another, more,
and another.
“what about in this room?”
“how about outside?”
flying is flying, it’s what they do.
perished, in piles or a pail, sort, count, need.
break out the tennis rackets
before dad comes home.
dead or alive, five pennies each,
black heads or white.
