Bees

Before I put them in her mouth, I named each one. I held them pinched by their wings between my thumb and forefinger, inspecting them for obvious defects. Their hind legs kicked at the impossibility and indignity, pollen sacks moving like yellow leg warmers on tiny aerobicizers.

It took me a while to calm her down and make her still. Her attention is always drawn away from me; the constant stimulation of the surrounding area pulls her from me in layers so that I can actually see her disappearing. I turn the radio down. I tell her to look at me. I ask her to sit on her hands. I stand before her, the jar full and the first one held carefully by wings.

"I'm going to call this one My Disappointment," I tell her.

I touch the legs of the bee against her lips, so that she knows to open, so that she will know I am serious. And she does open. She has nothing but this to capture her focus. I slip the first one into her mouth and instruct her not to swallow. Just hold it there.

"This one is named I'm Helpless," I say and slip another one in.

She was so good then, holding and not swallowing. I named all the bees in my jar; I Am Afraid I'm Losing You, I Get Scared When I Think You Aren't Listening, Can You Hear What I'm Actually Saying, Everything Is Crushing Me, The Small Things Are So Heavy, and so on.

She held them on her tongue and I think it made her happy. The bees did not sting her. The bees were happy. I heard them buzzing inside her head. They made a song inside of her. They were happy. I shook my empty jar and was not unhappy. My jar was empty.

I asked her to kiss me and she did. She leaned forward with her closed-mouth smile and kissed me. But, her eyes were unfocused. She was listening to the bees sing. I could tell that she was renaming them already.