GRIEF Poem: The Bee in My Belgian, by Rob Bailey

thrashes
and gasps, I imagine
as the low sun shines over the shell station
through the golden pool
where pink elephants circle the bee
like sharks, like a sacrificial circus
and I speak softly to the bee:
we all go sometime

The bee in my Belgian

flails
and flaps its dampened wings
and throws its exoskeleton against the glass
rippling the light on the ale
all before I recall my body
unwrap the napkin, the silverware
and dip the tips of the tines of my fork in
the golden pool

The bee in my Belgian

staggers
up the silver slide having swallowed
half its weight and beating its wings dry
It crawls to my hand and launches
sweeping low over the patio
I return my gaze to the placid golden pool
and take a gulp—
but I couldn’t save you