A bee died on the carpet. A bee died
and I vacuumed him up, a whole body gone.
Though it’s just an apparatus, a plastic wand,
it’s a privilege for the sucker to suck.
On the hardwood floor, there’s a wink
you’re not supposed to notice; there’s a wink
that shouldn’t even be there. A button
not doing its job, a button cut from a cuff.
Or it’s a button lost from an open blouse.
The wink’s not doing its job; its job is to keep
secret things closed. When it fails there’s a flaw
in the eye; a wing and a buzz, a gap in discretion.
When discretion opens, a lily unlocks its jaw,
the Venus catches a fly. The green lip sucks it up.
Down the plush stairs, I scour every step’s brim
and draw out the dirt. I polish the floor of scum
but in the gut’s where I gnaw, where the bee body
molders and the button lives for years.
You might as well leave it in the rug. The pin’s
the pincushion’s pleasure; let it settle in.