Bee, Bowl, Box, Boat

— Casey FitzSimons

            our dreams gestate
            like mutant bees …
                 —Carol Wade Lundberg


I brought down the small
glass Pyrex dish, upended it
over the fuzzy bee nosing
around in coffee grounds
on the counter, the bee
who seemed to take no notice of it
or me. Sliding
a postcard, a thin magazine reply-card,
under it, under him,
I righted the bowl, the bee
clinging to the card upside down.
I shook him
into the bowl, covered it with plastic wrap
as he hummed and nibbled, set it
in the Lucite box.


To use the box I’d needed to
take out the boat
that Judy gave me, the boat
of newspaper and muslin and string
that’s not a model of any boat
but a symbol for a vessel
afloat on some invisible
dream-sea. My house is full
of dust and airborne talc. That’s why
I’d bought the box—to protect the boat.


I thought the bee might work his way
over the lip of the bowl, squeeze
under the plastic wrap and out
and would puzzle
about his presence in the clear box
from which there was surely
no escape, but a view.


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