I was doing nothing when it happened
I heard the man say
it was nothing—
just a sting
I can see the hedgerow
summer thick
the low electric hum
and the sun
doing its work
A cold beer in my hand
a receipt folded twice
in my pocket
and you beside me
saying something small
about the heat
A single bee—
not a swarm
not a season
just one
wandering wrong
What are the chances
of that bee
finding me
of all the open air
all the drifting light
all the flowers
and choosing
this thin place
at my throat
I need some water
or shade
or a chair
I am swelling
quietly
from the inside
Nobody here
can explain it
and their voices
are fading
I have years
lined up ahead of me
like parked cars
I will not reach
and the man keeps saying
it happens
rarely -
very rarely
I think a long time ago
I cried
for smaller things
now it is only this—
a dot
a puncture
a wrong turn
in the air
when he said again
from a faraway place,
“It was just a sting—”
