Stung, by Heid E. Erdrich

Honeybee stinger

She couldn’t help but sting my finger,

clinging a moment before I flung her

to the ground. Her gold is true, not the trick

evening light plays on my roses.

She curls into herself, stinger twitching,

gilt wings folded. Her whole life just a few weeks,

and my pain subsided in a moment.

In the cold, she hardly had her wits to buzz.

No warning from either of us:

she sleeping in the richness of those petals,

then the hand, my hand, cupping the bloom

in devastating force, crushing the petals for the scent.

And she mortally threatened, wholly unaware

that I do this daily, alone with the gold last light,

in what seems to me an act of love.



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