10/01/06 (draft)

The bee-sting as if a splinter of glass had pierced the web of my hand,
the web of skin between the thumb and index finger.

The bee crawled into my sock as if to hide, but when I flicked it from the seam,
it curled into a fetal ball, its wings flattened against its furry abdomen.

I swatted the bee to help it along as it lie on the bathroom floor,
amid the bleach and talcum powder compounded into paste.

And tried to suck the splinter from my hand that felt like fiberglass beneath the skin,
which was the stinger that I first felt beneath the apple tree.

Why didn’t it start this way? Eve reached for the apple, or maybe Adam did.

A bee stung as the fruit was plucked; it felt like glass or eisenglass
the first couple hadn’t known before.

Earth hadn’t erupted, although the seas were made.
Rocks weren’t mixed with glassy or metallic things.
No need for gloves to pluck the fruit, the ones He said to take.

But then a little bee died to tell you something, his emissary, no bad guy.
That’s when it started. You felt a shard inside you, however small.

No matter how you tried to salve yourself, things weren’t the same.
You killed the bee for the little projectile you felt in the web of your hand,
the beginning of conflict.

The apples didn’t taste the same. You’d never been stung before.

I am the priest or pastor of the church that rests upon this story, so hand the till to me.
Charity begins not at home, but with my well-being.

Thus bee-stings begin the making of the salve a body needs.

A world could be built upon the remedy for stings, new stings could be made,
could even come from laboratories.

And rock was made to block the plowshare, and so was glass a splinter.