Bees, Wasps and Hornets Swarm

“Oh, death, where is thy sting?”
“Well, I’ll tell you — right
here,” he said pointing to his

heart and stomach and head —
“everything.” St. Paul must
have been referring to himself,

thought the man, ruminating on
his own demise, “That wouldn’t
be so hard. It wouldn’t sting

too much as long as I didn’t
have to be in pain, just slip
away, if you know what I mean,”

mumbling to no one and every-
one. “We do know what you mean,”
he answers himself, “those of us

who are on our way through the
shorter end of the stick, but
the death of a loved one?” It

isn’t just a sting, he thought.
It’s the whole hive after him.
And so the preacher is called

and he or she speaks with big
smiles of saccharin similes
which most take literally about

a heavenly home while standing
over the dark ground and wooden
box and then the box is lowered

and the dirt is shoveled and
the mourners go home to an
empty house with their sting-

ing hearts, stomachs, heads —
everything. And bees, wasps
and hornets swarm and swarm.

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