In the dim half-light turned blue, she gazes
up at the bees who’ve trapped themselves
in her skylight, the slow hum of tired wings
beating against fat, desperate bodies.
A lone fly flits about up there, also, at ease
in its unbelonging. The bees circle
in growing anxiety, then slow to a crawl.
My throat tightens as I see my mother
grab the flyswatter. Don’t, I whisper,
but her tiny frame is already climbing up
on the kitchen table, her focus unwavering.
Oh, I won’t **** them, she grins,
her arm extending the fly swatter high,
a meager offering swathed in good cheer.
I rush over to steady her body to keep her
from tipping over in this precarious pursuit.
She waves away my offer to trade places
with her. You’re very pregnant, she says,
and her tone tells me there is no arguing
with her. My mother murmurs in Mandarin
to the agitated creatures, calling them
beautiful, letting them know she sees them,
sees how they’ve been up there for far too long
swelling with exhaustion and mistrust.
The first bee slowly climbs onto the swatter
as if entranced by her sweet, clear voice.
She hands me the swatter, and I fumble
with the backyard door, nervously
carrying it into her garden. I place the bee atop
one of my mother’s flowerbeds. It clings
to a sunset-orange bud, and I make my way
back inside. In silence, we retrieve, hand off,
and rehome each bee until all eight are
safely in the garden. Not one makes
any move to leave, content to simply rest
a while, to savor the fresh air, to revel
in the sacred space my mother holds
for every being she meets. In the fading light,
I watch her linger in the bare kitchen, a shadow
of a smile gracing her face. If only
they could see her in this light. Would anything
change? Or would she still merely be the next subway
push, another fatal stabbing as she returns home,
one more life snuffed out in a now-empty nail salon?
Jul 15, 2025
Jul 15, 2025 at 3:50 AM UTC
In the dim half-light turned blue, she gazes
up at the bees who’ve trapped themselves
in her skylight, the slow hum of tired wings
beating against fat, desperate bodies.
A lone fly flits about up there, also, at ease
in its unbelonging. The bees circle
in growing anxiety, then slow to a crawl.
My throat tightens as I see my mother
grab the flyswatter. Don’t, I whisper,
but her tiny frame is already climbing up
on the kitchen table, her focus unwavering.
Oh, I won’t **** them, she grins,
her arm extending the fly swatter high,
a meager offering swathed in good cheer.
I rush over to steady her body to keep her
from tipping over in this precarious pursuit.
She waves away my offer to trade places
with her. You’re very pregnant, she says,
and her tone tells me there is no arguing
with her. My mother murmurs in Mandarin
to the agitated creatures, calling them
beautiful, letting them know she sees them,
sees how they’ve been up there for far too long
swelling with exhaustion and mistrust.
The first bee slowly climbs onto the swatter
as if entranced by her sweet, clear voice.
She hands me the swatter, and I fumble
with the backyard door, nervously
carrying it into her garden. I place the bee atop
one of my mother’s flowerbeds. It clings
to a sunset-orange bud, and I make my way
back inside. In silence, we retrieve, hand off,
and rehome each bee until all eight are
safely in the garden. Not one makes
any move to leave, content to simply rest
a while, to savor the fresh air, to revel
in the sacred space my mother holds
for every being she meets. In the fading light,
I watch her linger in the bare kitchen, a shadow
of a smile gracing her face. If only
they could see her in this light. Would anything
change? Or would she still merely be the next subway
push, another fatal stabbing as she returns home,
one more life snuffed out in a now-empty nail salon?
Originally published in Last Stanza, published as reprint in Eunoia Poetry.
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