Bees —Donald Illich

We always thought that the bees

were what we should be most afraid of

on the playground.  That is, until some

students fell in the quicksand, leaving

baseball caps and Cub Scout hats

on the surface to show where they once

lived.  Our signs warned people away

from the pits, but a tiger appeared 

at the edge of the yard, occasionally 

claiming a nervous fourth grader 

or a curious eight-year-old, each of whom 

had dreamed of a cat the night before.  

Once a fence had been constructed, 

we thought everything O.K., that only 

a stray hive threatened the children.  

That was when night fell, and cannibals 

came with bags, capturing the most succulent 

pupils, dragging them screaming from slides

and the monkey-bars.  It was only after

the biggest were gone that we reproached

ourselves about our beliefs about bees,

but we’d seen one attack.  We’d panicked.

Honey and light drove us mad with fear.

AUTHOR BIO:

Donald Illich has published poetry in the Iowa Review, Nimrod, Fourteen Hills, and other journals. "Chance Bodies," is his fist book of poems. He lives in Maryland.