The Open Door
You collect the dead bees
in my studio, pinching delicate wings
between thumb and forefinger,
placing each still pantomime
on the window ledge.
They come in through the open door
on warm days
but stubbornly nudge fuzzy heads
against the skylight glass,
pressing, probing for a way out,
They don’t see that freedom is easy:
Just fly back through the open door.
One died clinging to the curtain.
It looked alive; you jumped
when it fell at your touch.
A honeybee, pockets of golden pollen
saddlebagged at its sides.
You set it next to the yellow jacket
whose antennae have already dried
in curls around its head.
We find them buzzing
against the glass,
wild blue yonder
just out of reach.
I pop screens,
coax them through the window.
You scoop them with a water glass,
carry them through the open door.
This poem appears in my collection, Broom of Anger.