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.

Author: Patrick Kindig