Be Bumped
A bee hit my thumb as I walked
and bumped me off my stride.
No sting but a side step, taken aback,
forgetful for a moment
that a beloved was busy dying.
A bee and today’s complicated sky
pushed me alive and disappearing
under a mound of clouds that shoved me
into a hopscotch of years.
With memories, I catch my longest breath.
My phone rings and swift as a bee
my hearing falls to the ground
where it stays while I ponder the length
of a life. How long it took the bee
to bump my thumb and what it did after.
It did not die.
Will tomorrow knock me
onto another new path,
or is death forever rolling in, sweeping wide,
and taking someone far out, only to draw
another in. To bump us into listening
for the drone that threads it all together.
Humbled, I browse
as the bee buzzes the petals
of my uncle’s life, a furry pellet
diving into each headfirst
to carry the gold we all carry home.
Rachel Dacus is the author of five novels. Her poetry collections are Arabesque, Gods of Water and Air, Femme au Chapeau, and Earth Lessons. Rachel’s work has appeared widely in print and online, in Boulevard, Gargoyle, Prairie Schooner, and others, as well as the anthology Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California. She lives in the San Francisco area. Connect with her at www.racheldacus.net.
Amethyst Review 
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