It lay lifeless in the bowl of squirrel water on the patio
The plump black/yellow beauty for my dead critter collection
A proclivity that puts me on top of the cool grandma list

I grab a kitchen strainer to gently rescue the corpse
Recalling a 5-year-old grandson who ran
mid-game off the soccer field to see a run-over
baby rattlesnake I found by the road

But the bee tells me with sudden tremble of wings
that it isn’t accepting the condition I’ve diagnosed
Causing disappointment to argue with conscience
It’s clear what Jane would do
But maybe she doesn’t have grandchildren who beg

to visit bug-eyed over found bodies of beetles, flies
cockroaches, roly-polies, ladybugs, butterflies, moths
grasshoppers and skeletons of mice and lizards
This natural introduction to death  
That isn’t going to happen here says the faint buzz
from the cadaver turned Lazarus
So I turn it out onto a bed of grass

Yet only one wing works
which compels a mercy killing decision
The bee now dive-bombing the grass
like a bantam airplane bouncing before the crash
Its motor louder and louder
Propelled by the universal gear that powers life

I empower my role to play God by getting a glass of wine
Upon return the bee is nowhere in sight
Compensation for my collection’s loss comes soon
with a knock at the door by granddaughters, 11 and 7
Who thrust smiles nearly as wide as the shoebox they hold
filled with a dead rat that would fit size 9 feet


This poem first appeared in Chiron Review.
Used here with permission.