Another Bee Poem
by Ralph Jenkins

I am once again thinking about the bees—no,
not about the physical limits we try to impress
upon them, nor am I comparing the well-oiled
machine of their matriarchal societies to man’s
obsession with dumpster fires lit by men in ill-
fitting suits. No, today, after one whizzed by
my ear as I stood puffing tree on my porch, I
am thinking of the buzz bees make busying
themselves doing as bees do. The hum carried
me back. Reminded me how buzzes would
bleed through my momma’s open windows
as they swarmed her roses. & that one time
me & da homie leapt out the hotbox at the
sound of tiny flapping wings, their particular
timbre telling us this ain’t no horsefly.

                                                                                                                                                       & I suppose we needed something to clear the air,
                                                                                                                                                        cuz bruh had just told me about his moms & how
                                                                                                                                                the cancer had almost won. We got to spiraling about
                                                                                                                                                   the ends of parents, & how there’s no way we could 
                                                                                                                                                             whip up a Sunday dinner like moms, so what’s
                                                                                                                                                    the point of Sunday dinner—or dinner, or Sundays
                                                                                                                                                      for that matter—if her laugh isn’t cutting through
                                                                                                                                                the pot roast’s aroma, at which point the bee decided
                                                                                                                                                           to make its presence known. & before I knew it,
                                                                                                                                                  we were out the car, tripping over our feet to escape
                                                                                                                                                             the unseen menace. & after seconds which felt
                                                                                                                                                              like days, the bee slow-buzzed out the door to
                                                                                                                                                        get back to his love, or his homies, or his favorite
                                                                                                                                                     daisy, or wherever bees chill when not frightening
                                                                                                                                                            teenagers smoking weed in their parent’s cars.

When we finally noticed each other, two young men
made mice by a sound as though it were a sign of
coming death, we buckled. Doubled over. Cracked
up at our cracked faces, our flight, our fortune that
no one witnessed us wussing out. We laughed like
we did when we were even younger, before the ficus
in our fourth-grade class succumbed to overwatering,
before we knew death had a list of names including
ours & everyone we love. What a shame, yes, that
innocence has an expiration date, but also, that the
bees are dying. I barely remember what it feels like
to laugh like life is as endless as the sky outside my
momma’s window, & their buzz was one of my few
remaining reminders.

---

Raphael prefers to go by Ralph, as he feels it suits him better and he’s heard every Ninja Turtle joke ever uttered. He’s a native of Detroit, Michigan currently residing in Kentucky with his Boo-thang and their seven-year-old boy. He’s a chef by day and an essayist, poet, screenwriter in his dreams. He, like Issa Rae, is rooting for everybody Black. He is three time Best of the Net nominee, a Pushcart Prize nominee, a finalist for the 2021 Frontier Poetry Open Prize, and 2022 Periplus Collective Fellow whose work is forthcoming or has been featured on his momma’s fridge, his close friends’ inboxes, TriQuarterly, Narrative Magazine, The Adroit Journal, Indiana Review, Colorado Review and elsewhere.