What a task! A chore
to be left sweeping up
fifteen summers of extracted
bee stingers and insect wings
that fly bodiless into the corners
of molding. Yet, sweep I do—
and bend to coax up
the fine minutes of seasons
this bulk of broom
cannot begin to remember.
I am destined to do this work.
It is my inheritance.
And there is some joy.
When the dustpan is full
I shake and batter the particles
of the woman
into an eye
in the picture frame.
One blink, two blinks,
a quiver of lip;
then the tear—
perfect, warm, mine—
given out of love,
out of hatred.
It doesn’t matter.
A powder of pollen falls
to the sill as a bee hovers
entering as if on a thread,
and noses my dustpan.
I look from it, to the woman,
to my callouses. Who is
the drone of the three of us?
Stooping in quiet, I cup
my hands and feel the bee
whirring like an exposed wire—
a desperate current—
and I know my mother.
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