A hesitation, a parachute-like drag
on the last part of the trip to see my dying father,
keeps me from him tonight.
No, I’ll go tomorrow morning
tonight he will be too tired, I tell myself
but the truth is I am too tired and don’t want to go.

And what I picture here
is a boxy hive of bees,
me outfitted in a full beekeeper’s suit.
The huge hat weighs down my head
and I can barely see through the mask
but I have checked every zipper and snap,
tucked in every flap.
and I know not one bee can get to me.

Yet when I pull the top off the box
and my gloves are covered
with bristling, busy insects,
when their swarms have spread
to my arms, legs, back, chest,
when they lift off and return, lift off and return,
I still brace myself for the pain,
expect each stinger to rip open the suit,
almost feel each tiny foot upon my body
through all that armor.