Charles

It floated in the swimming pool buzzing,
trying to take off and head for the roses,
to do a good job for the queen.
But the chemicals were too toxic, the water
on its wings, an unmovable weight.

My son caught the bee just before
it was sucked into the skimmer.
He arranged a container with
blades of grass and a leaf.
He named it Charles, an appellation
more for us than for the bee.

We didn’t know until later that worker bees were
all female with a life span of only six weeks.
We gave it sugar water as a substitute
for the nectar of lilies, roses and hibiscus.
Charles looked up at the ceiling fan instead of sky,
through Saran Wrap, pierced with a kitchen knife.

And after two days,
the female bee with a boy’s name
was floating motionless in the saucer
intended to save her life.
We like to believe that she succumbed
to old age, rather than chlorine
or the sweet liquid of our kindness.

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