by Jacqueline Jules
I almost reacted. Almost
questioned how he could dare
complain about more pots to wash
when I cooked all afternoon.
Then I remembered the honeybee,
how it dies a gruesome death
when its stinger embeds
in human skin. The bee tears
a hole in its belly pulling out
the sac of venom.
A honeybee values peace.
It only stings when threatened,
not over something as petty
as who cooked and who cleaned up.
And certainly not when it could rest,
like I am right now, with feet up
on the couch, while my honey
loads the dishwasher
and scrubs every pot.
Originally published in One Art.
Edited by Mark Danowsky.