my mother weaved the slumped bag 
of my father through traffic 
as fast as she could but he died 
of a hornet sting. after two EpiPens 
on route, additional amps of epinephrine 
at the hospital ER, he coded 
but then pulled through. I learned this 
at his bedside—his gown-drowning body 
surrounded by family and welcomed, 
incessant beeping—when a young resident 
thrust his head into the curtained room 
and casually asked, oh, you’re still with us?

             we were sitting at my desk 
             when you heard the buzzing,
             began to recoil. became a boxer
             expertly slipping invisible jabs. 
             soon I was chasing a gold 
             and black-backed friend 
            with a wide-mouthed gallon jug—
            a student project, the only 
            available container 
            in my classroom. every year 
           a hive flourishes beneath 
           the window closest to my desk—
           the one with the best breeze,
           the only one without a screen.

it was his second time being stung. 
the first they thought a heart attack—
couldn’t believe a Jamaican went over 
seven decades unpunctured. a week-long 
hospital stay ruled out everything else,
prescribed the EpiPens he rarely carries. 
both times he was working construction, 
supporting the family. they say he’ll die 
if it happens again. they said something
about reduced tolerance. more serious 
adverse reactions. nothing can save him 
but God. 

                                                                        you’ve told me 
                                                                        they don’t want you 
                                                                        here anymore, 
                                                                        are letting you go. 
                                                                        I can’t. 

immunotherapy didn’t work and there’s no 
reliable way to track his body’s changes,
vulnerabilities. and he’s stubborn. refuses
to adjust any habits. still works outside, 
toils short-sleeved in the garden. says, 
if the Father is calling me Home, it’s my time. 
can’t really argue with that. 

            eventually our friend settled on a window. 
            I pressed the container over him, 
           heard the buzzing, saw the blurry 
           black and gold presence within plastic. 
           a torn cover from a copy of Macbeth 
           was curled on a book cart within reach. 
           I slipped it between the glass and plastic 
           lip and upended the container. I was—
           quietly—talking to him the whole time. 
           I opened a screened window, carefully
           maneuvered and shook him outside. free.
           you breathed easier. 

in almost five decades, I’ve never been stung—
don’t know how little time I have when 
so common a piercing happens.


                                                                              on another page 
                                                                              I’ve written what 
                                                                              I will say to them 
                                                                              tomorrow 
                                                                             on your behalf—
                                                                             to keep you here.
                                                                             to keep you safe 
                                                                             though it may 
                                                                             kill us both.