Autumn Sky Poetry . . . Number 12 . . .
 

A bee in the car

     by Brent Fisk



Gently on the back of my hand,
it lands, legs like eyelashes


thick with mascara, wings thin


as cellophane.


The spring wind shakes the car.


I lower my window as my wife


does her EEK-a-mouse.


I have lived in the presence of many stingers,
know slow movement will not draw venom.


The bee flies into the backseat,
angry huzz of confinement, small yellow fear


like the flutter in a stomach. It must be all those years


of swallowing it in, the failed flight of a fist,


gentle tremor of a hand.


I pull to the shoulder, wax-cup the bee


to open air.  Large trucks throttle down
but barely brake, aftermath of kicked up winter


grit, acrid diesel, thick and blue as the past.










Brent Fisk’s work has appeared in Prairie Schooner, Rattle, Southern Poetry Review, and Greensboro Review among many other places.He’s been nominated for four Pushcart awards, and last year he won the Sam Ragan Prize and the Willow Award plus an honorable mention in Boulevard’s Emerging Poets contest.   

© 2009 Brent Fisk