The Bees

The bees had taken over
the front porch, but I didn’t mind. Covering

my coffee with one hand, I’d stand at the center
of their orbit like a great sleepy sun, watching

as they anchored themselves in the air
against the breeze, as they collided

in pairs, corkscrewing out of sight.
They didn’t seem to mind

me, either, their chitin daggers tucked
safely away, no danger, just flashing black

and gold. They were like onyx beads
spilling from the tongue of a broken necklace,

like Christmas lights let off
their leash. Then, one morning, I found

a finch’s hollow body on my welcome mat,
its throat torn open

by the bee it mistook
for a seed, its head tilted slightly

backward. Its eyes were still
open, still dark and shining. Still fixed

on a point of light hanging inches
before it, that final shimmering kernel

begging to be consumed.