They Will Sew the Blue Sail

[A BEE DIED ON THE CARPET] | Jennifer Moore

A bee died on the carpet. A bee died

and I vacuumed him up, a whole body gone.

Though it’s just an apparatus, a plastic wand,

it’s a privilege for the sucker to suck.

On the hardwood floor, there’s a wink

you’re not supposed to notice; there’s a wink

that shouldn’t even be there. A button

not doing its job, a button cut from a cuff.

Or it’s a button lost from an open blouse.

The wink’s not doing its job; its job is to keep

secret things closed. When it fails there’s a flaw

in the eye; a wing and a buzz, a gap in discretion.

When discretion opens, a lily unlocks its jaw,

the Venus catches a fly. The green lip sucks it up.

Down the plush stairs, I scour every step’s brim

and draw out the dirt. I polish the floor of scum

but in the gut’s where I gnaw, where the bee body

molders and the button lives for years.

You might as well leave it in the rug. The pin’s

the pincushion’s pleasure; let it settle in.